


Switch Hitters

by SmudleyKAM



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 56,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmudleyKAM/pseuds/SmudleyKAM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story attempts to blend what we love about Starsky and Hutch-- the close partnership, hurt/comfort, and adventure--with a professional baseball setting. For that reason, I have slightly altered canon events, the main characters’ ages, and, in keeping true to the show, some of the characters’ on-the-field responses to baseball-related events are certainly not typical of baseball players in the real world, either in the 1970s or today. Also, this story stays true to 1970s baseball, when interleague play did not exist outside the World Series, and American League pitchers were not called on to bat in regular season play. Students of the game, take note: while I strive for accuracy even with baseball minutiae, there may be errors, both unintentional and deliberate for the sake of story flow. This story was originally published in the zine Timeless 2, published by Flamingo in October, 2005...Kaye Austen Michaels</p>
    </blockquote>





	Switch Hitters

**Author's Note:**

> This story attempts to blend what we love about Starsky and Hutch-- the close partnership, hurt/comfort, and adventure--with a professional baseball setting. For that reason, I have slightly altered canon events, the main characters’ ages, and, in keeping true to the show, some of the characters’ on-the-field responses to baseball-related events are certainly not typical of baseball players in the real world, either in the 1970s or today. Also, this story stays true to 1970s baseball, when interleague play did not exist outside the World Series, and American League pitchers were not called on to bat in regular season play. Students of the game, take note: while I strive for accuracy even with baseball minutiae, there may be errors, both unintentional and deliberate for the sake of story flow. This story was originally published in the zine Timeless 2, published by Flamingo in October, 2005...Kaye Austen Michaels

Holman Stadium, Dodgertown, Vero Beach, Florida  
March 1975

"Hey, Starsky! Dobey wants you in his office now."

David Starsky lifted his facemask and swiveled in his squat to face the dugout where John Colby stood by the wall phone. "Y'alright," Starsky shouted to the shortstop. "Gimme a minute." He adjusted his legs and pounded a fist into his mitt. "Okay, Nash. One more. Right down the middle. Make my cup run for cover."

Terry Nash doubled over on the pitcher's mound, clutching his sides in gasps of laughter. "Damn, Starsky. Can't pitch for shit when you play comedian."

Starsky grinned at the freckled redhead right-hander. "You can't pitch for shit, end of story."

"Why, you--!" Nash set himself up quickly, swung into his wind-up, and delivered a fastball that left a vapor trail on its way to home plate. Starsky feigned a solid knock-back behind the plate and danced in his squat, whooping his approval. 

"All right! Pitch like that a couple’a hours from now and we'll beat them lousy Astros for sure. Win the last game of Spring Training and go back to LA with a pre-season winning record. Dobey might be happy enough to extend curfew." He leaped to his feet, detached his faceguard from his helmet, and hurried to the dugout. Depositing the helmet and face-protector on the bench, he took time to unhook and discard his shin guards, but chose to keep his pads in place. Best not to keep Dobey waiting.

Something must be brewing, Starsky thought, going straight through the dugout's inner door and down the stairs toward the clubhouse. Captain Dobey--and no one had a clue why the Dodgers' manager insisted on being called captain--always kept a hawk's eye on batting practice and pre-game starting pitcher warm-up, even in Vero Beach's informal atmosphere. For him to hole up in his hated office meant something big had come down from upstairs. General Management level or higher, probably. Starsky's breathing quickened, and his pulse reflected his fear that an early trade would send him packing out of the Dodgers' organization on the eve of his third season.

The manager's office at their spring facility was nothing more than a cramped closet compared to the one at Dodger Stadium. Starsky tried to blame the tight quarters for the sudden constriction in his throat that throbbed with every breath he took, but he was never very good at lying to himself. The most stunning man he had ever seen sat with flawless posture in the rickety metal chair in front of Dobey's desk. Starsky knew him by sight--the hot prospect righty on the Twins' squad--but glimpses of the man on TV failed to do justice to the golden reality of the pitcher's athletic physique, shimmering sun-spun hair, and . . . those eyes. Hot prospect. Never was a phrase more appropriate. 

Dobey beckoned with a loosely curled fist, his favorite summons. "Dave Starsky, meet Ken Hutchinson. He's your new teammate. Minnesota was desperate for a southpaw, and our farm system's swimming in them, so they took two of our minor league up-and-comers for Mr. Hutchinson here. Finalized yesterday. Now, toward the end of last season, his stats--" Dobey eyed Hutchinson briefly, and the squint to the captain's eyes said he was sizing the pitcher up on his ability to handle criticism. "His stats took a slide. I had a chat with his pitching coach, and Luke Huntley knows his business. Said Hutchinson is Cy Young material, just needs the right man behind the plate. We're hoping you can get him back up to speed and work out the kinks."

Hutchinson chose then to open his deliciously wide mouth. The accent was upper Midwestern, but the tone might as well have been Harvard or Yale: condescending, superior, framed in ice. "With all due respect, skipper, I don't need a rookie catcher to solve my problems. Nothing a good fast and meditation won't cure."

Starsky shot a look of astonishment at Dobey, then turned it into a glare and focused its full fury on Hutchinson. With all due respect--? What kind of ballplayer talks like that, anyway? He noticed Hutchinson's University of Minnesota jacket. Oh. The college-boy ballplayer. Just fabulous. 

"With all due respect, Blondie," Starsky snarled, injecting the nickname with venom, "we call our manager 'captain' round here, not skipper. Second of all, did I just hear you say meditation? You gonna get in the lotus position on the mound or some shit like that?"

Hutchinson shot to his feet, and the movement had Starsky's eyes drifting to mile-long legs. "Listen, buster, I'm sure you know your game, but I don't need babysitting by a smart ass street tough masquerading as a ballplayer."

"Street tough?" He swung his glare Dobey's way and jerked a thumb at Hutchinson. "Did he just call me a street tough?"

"Your reputation precedes you," Hutchinson continued, openly sneering. "Like the brawl in that LA nightclub at the end of last season. Hell, the whole American League heard about that."

"That brawl," Starsky had no trouble matching sneer for sneer, "happened 'cause some asshole called our second baseman--who happens to be a close friend of mine--names your pretty-boy WASP ears probably ain't even heard, and furthermore, American League Boy, you're in the National League now, so you better toughen up--"

"QUIET!" Dobey roared. A sizeable man, the manager's bulk didn't do near the intimidating his vocal cords could. He pointed at Hutchinson. "You. Starsky is not a rookie. On this team, he's our veteran catcher. We're a young team in several of the positions, due to injuries and shifting of roster. He's also good at handling problem pitchers, which your manager believed you were on the road to becoming. You'll work with him and damn well like it. And you can fast, meditate, practice the art of Zen, whatever you like, on your resting days, not your pitching outings." He stabbed his finger at Starsky next. "You. You worry about Hutchinson's pitching arm, not the rest of his life. Opening day is just ten days away. April 7th, just to remind you if you've somehow forgotten. I'm counting on having Hutchinson ready to pitch on the 11th in Houston. So get the hell out of my office, show our new pitcher around, and get him on the field."

Chin up and eyes flashing, Hutchinson marched out without looking to see if Starsky followed. Dobey held up a hand. "Wait, Starsky. Is Nash ready for today?"

Starsky shrugged. "Think so, Cap'n. He's so high-strung, y'know? That's the problem. And sometimes I think he forgets where he is, who he is even, when he's on the mound. Like he's brainwashed or something. I've seen pitchers go into trances, but he makes it a lifestyle. Still, I think he'll give us a good six innings before you have to bring in relief."

"All right. Good work. I meant what I said, Starsky. We need a solid, hard-throwing right-hander. Nash is quirky at best. Get over the pesky itch Hutchinson gives you and help him get his stuff back together. At least until Blaine is out of the hospital and can work with him."

"How's Johnny doing?" Starsky heartily missed John Blaine, the kind of pitching coach every catcher gave thanks to God for: likeable, mild-mannered, knowledgeable, quick to leave the dugout when needed and slow to leave the mound during a conference.

"Good as a man with a ruptured appendix can be. We're lucky to still have him with us. Ortega and Whitelaw went to see him before practice."

"So that's why a third of our outfield was late to the field, and third base stood empty." Starsky laughed. "All right, Captain. I'll do my best with college boy." He winked, saluted, and spun around to leave Dobey in peace.

Out in the hall, he found Hutchinson waiting for him. He slung a companionable arm around Hutchinson’s tensed shoulders. "First off, your name needs work. Hutchinson is no name for a ballplayer." Hutchinson instantly shortened to "Hutch" in Starsky's mind. When David Starsky had a good idea, it became reality, simple as that. "I'm calling you Hutch."

"Like hell you are," Hutch said with quiet loathing.

"Like hell I'm not. It's either Hutch or Sweet Stuff, take your pick."

Starsky landed on his back on the unforgiving floor, efficiently pinned in a classic Greco-Roman hold before he could blink twice. On the edge of onrushing desire, he noticed that Hutch had managed to cradle the back of his head, preventing a nasty contact with the thinly carpeted concrete. 

Hutch's face was a mask of disapproval. "When I wasn't pitching for U of M, I was on the wrestling team. Drove my baseball coach nuts thinking I'd get injured and knocked out of a career, but I figured I'd need the skill to deal with jerks like you who see beach blond hair and think 'pansy.' Call me Sweet Stuff again, and I'll forget to brace your head next time." He slipped his hand out of Starsky's hair and released him, stepping back to let Starsky pick himself off the floor.

"Hey," Starsky said, grinning. "We coulda used you in that brawl." He didn't bother to brush himself off. A little dust and wrinkling never hurt anyone, and he wanted visible proof of the moment to linger. 

"I don't get my kicks from adolescent regression." Hutch sniffed. 

"Who put the burr up your ass?" Starsky demanded. 

"I don't have anything up my ass, thank you much," Hutch said icily.

And you never have, never will. Starsky swallowed more disappointment than he'd ever experienced. "Well, something's got your shorts in a wad." He pushed through the swinging doors into the locker room. 

"I didn't want this trade. Didn't want to leave Minnesota."

"No kidding? Who doesn't wanna leave Minnesota? You got a hot chick up there? Do they even make hot chicks in Minnesota?"

Hutch's sky blue eyes were threatening another wrestling maneuver. "If you must know, my grandmother's frail. I look after her. Being on the road was hard enough, but at least I had home stretches and the offseason with her."

Starsky was surprised. The block of golden ice had human warmth, after all. "Can't your folks take over?"

Hutch's face solidified to match the floor's concrete. "I'm not here to discuss my family with you. Give me a locker, a uniform, and let me start doing what I came here for."

Touchy subject. "Here you go, then. One of the team's assistants already got your uniform hanging." He leaned against the neighboring locker--Turkey wouldn't mind; he wasn't superstitious about lockers like Huggy--to watch the inspiring show. "So, what pitch you having the most trouble with?"

No guy in his right mind requested privacy when changing in a team locker room, but Hutch looked like he wanted to. He shed shoes and socks, jeans, t-shirt, and university jacket in a blur of cloth and motion. "Slider. And my fastball's lost some juice."

But Starsky had zoned out as the underwear came down in preparation for the athletic support. Christ Everlasting, the man had a spare bat! Starsky's mouth dried. He had to fold his arms over his bulky chest padding just to keep from reaching fingers over to measure the soft flesh for an estimate of how huge it got when hard. 

Glacial blue eyes were locked on his face, he realized belatedly. "You have a problem?" Hutch asked, fixing the jockstrap in place. 

Yes, Starsky did. Watching Minnesota's answer to every gay porn producer's most fervent prayer unveil himself and then shift his package around was not advisable when suited up for play. Starsky's genitals strained against their own protection. But if a man was going to be bisexual in Major League baseball, he better know how to cover the signals. For Starsky, that meant hiding in plain sight. 

"Bet you have no trouble going yard with all that wood."

Hutch stared at him. "Was that baseball slang for questioning my virginity? Not that it's your business, but I'm married." Starsky felt his heart sink down around his knee-saver pads. His eyes went straight to Hutch's bare left hand. Hutch spotted the glance. "S-separated. Soon to be d-divorced. There, you know my life history. Now quit staring at my dick or any other portion of my anatomy, if you don't mind."

Damn. The lady must be a real ball-buster to make smooth-talking college boy stutter. 

Starsky had little care for the woman unlucky enough to lose this gorgeous, uptight wonder. He was reeling under a wave of hope. Hutch had clearly judged his interest to be more than locker room dick measuring, and Starsky still had all his teeth. 

"Sorry to hear that, about your marriage.”

No you're not, Hutch's eyes telegraphed, while his hands were busy yanking the "white flannel" uniform leggings into place. 

Starsky snapped his fingers. "Hey, maybe that's your trouble. Women-problems have been responsible for more pitching kinks than humans can count. You think maybe that's got something to do with it?"

Hutch slammed the locker door so hard the entire row of lockers rattled. "Vanessa has nothing to do with my pitching. This is the last time we will ever speak of her, you understand?"

The swinging doors opened, and both men turned at the entrance of a tall, skinny black man snapping his fingers and slapping hands in a catchy rhythm. "Starsky, you better hustle back outside. Nash is about to talk hisself into another panic attack, and Taco is ready to knock some out of the park, but he doesn't wanna start without his favorite batting practice buddy."

"Taco?" Hutch questioned, showing the first hint of smile.

"Paco Ortega, our power-hitting centerfielder," Starsky answered. "We call him 'Taco' because he can demolish a plate of 'em the size of me and still strike a couple long-balls in a game afterward." He gestured for Huggy to join them. "Huggy Bear Brown, otherwise known as our second baseman, this is Ken Hutchinson, fresh from Minnesota."

Looking impressed, Hutch shook hands with Huggy. "Eighty stolen bases last season, am I right?"

Huggy whistled. "The man knows his ball. Huggy's the name, stealing's my game. They call me Four-Base Brown 'cause if I reach first, I'm comin' in."

"That's not his only talent," Starsky bragged, slapping Huggy on the back. "He knows everything he's not supposed to know. Just last week he was telling us we'd be getting a new righty. How'd you know, Hug? You got the owner's wires tapped?"

"Don't need to tap Gunther's phone." Huggy tilted his head and tried for a mysterious look. "And if I told you my secrets, you'd lose your awe of me, and then who'd fight my battles when some no account honky starts insulting my ancestry?" He grinned at Hutch and gestured at Starsky. "This man's my bodyguard, amigo. I'm a lover and a ballplayer, but a warrior I'm not. My bones like the skin they's in."

"Not to mention Dobey would shoot both of us if you got roughed up and couldn't run the bases," Starsky added. "He'd let me hit whoever I had to just to keep your legs in good shape."

Huggy snorted. "Another excellent point, brother." He looked Hutch over. "Coming from the AL, you're used to that asinine invention, the DH. Designated hitter, my ass. That's a three-year experiment I hope falls on its face, but then I'm a purist who's scared we're gonna have season-long interleague play one of these days. Over here in the rough-n-tumble NL, our pitchers swing lumber. You ready for that?"

"Another reason I didn't want the trade," Hutch sighed. "Haven't put bat to ball in a single Major League game."

Overheated from the sexual imagery those words conjured, Starsky risked putting his arm around Hutch's shoulders again. "No worries. Our hitting coach played for the Yankees in their heyday. Lloyd Herman Eckworth, known to all for his inside the park homerun on a day hotter'n hell's backyard. He'll have you geared up to face home plate from the opposite direction."

Huggy nodded. "And Starsky's one helluva slugger, though I risk swelling his already oversized head saying so. His favorite catchers of all-time are Berra and Campanella, and he hits like them, honest to God. Last season he had the highest sustained batting average of any catcher in the league."

"I know. He finished the season at .337 with 30 doubles, 25 homeruns, and 85 RBIs in 559 at-bats. If I'm not mistaken," Hutch said without looking at Starsky. He had yet to shrug off the arm draped around him. 

Huggy clapped and pointed at Starsky's slack-jawed surprise. "I think Curly has a fan and don't know what to do about it! Go on, Starsky, offer the man your autograph."

"That won't be necessary." Hutch's face and voice vied for stoniest. He jerked free of Starsky's friendly arm and hurried out of the locker room. 

Huggy whistled. "Don't smile much, our new throw-boy."

Starsky frowned at the doors still swinging from Hutch's rough exit. "I don't think he's had much reason to smile, Hug. I better catch up to him. He'll end up wandering in circles."

~~~~~~~  
Astrodome, Houston  
April 1975

"What the hell are you doing?"

Hutchinson felt himself jump, but his crossed ankles and heavy mocs proved sufficient counterweight against going airborne. Annoyed, he jerked his mind out of peaceful, snow-covered meadows under a gray Minnesota winter sky, and oriented himself to his surroundings by degrees. Houston. The Astrodome's visiting team locker room. A cold, hard floor. He adjusted his legs, grateful for his most comfortable pair of jeans, and faced the uncouth intruder. His scowl--he stretched his lips to make sure the discouraging expression spanned from ear to ear--apparently carried no weight with his so-called catcher. The man stood, arms folded chest-level over his cotton practice jersey, and stared him down. Bigger, more important personages than this New York native had beaten a hasty retreat from Hutchinson's back-the-hell-off face. 

Hutchinson lost the battle, but he had no intention of conceding the war. "Not that it matters to you, but today is my first Major League start as a Dodger, and my slider is still trying to mimic a slowed-down changeup. Against the Astros' lineup, if the scouting reports are a reliable guide, I'm dead in the water without a speedy slider."

Starsky gestured at Hutchinson's modified lotus position. "And you think this'll help?"

"Nothing else has. Blaine's still recovering from his hospitalization and too weak to do any strenuous coaching, and the other pitchers haven't exactly been tripping over themselves to give me useful advice, the few who'll even talk to me." Hutchinson heard the bitterness in his voice, powerless against revealing more than he intended. "What're you doing here?"

"Looking for you, what else? I went by your room to see if you wanted to get here early and work some kinks out of your arm, but you weren't there. Figured you must be here already. Y'know, if you'd agreed to room with me, we could've been working on some of your pitching quirks outside of practice."

"Thank you, no. The front office has decreed that I have to pitch to you, but I'm under no obligation to share living space with you. No offense."

Starsky's smile held no malice, but it could have shredded steel. "Gee, how I could take offense at that? 'Sides, I don't know if I want a roommate who belongs to some weird religious cult."

Hutchinson bit down on his lower lip. "It's called meditation. Religion, well, at the basic level I practice it, anyway, has nothing to do with it."

"Yeah? Then what's with the kooky chanting?"

"I wasn't chanting! Look, this locker room is big enough for both of us if you go--" Hutchinson shot out his arm to indicate the opposite wall and the entrance to the showers. "Over there somewhere. Or better yet, the batting cages."

"First you gotta tell me what you were aiming at with the crossed ankles and closed eyes."

Hutchinson closed his eyes again, pretending he was alone in the room. "I'm trying to find my center. Relax myself. Step back from the game. Pitching is as psychological as it is physical."

"You're right about that. But this meditation jazz is bull. If this was a Tibetan monastery, I wouldn't knock it, I'd get down there with you and try it. But this is baseball. You don't solve a baseball problem with Oms and Ahs, Hutch."

Pretending was futile. Hutchinson opened his eyes. "The name, Mr. Starkey, is Hutchinson. Not 'Blondie', not 'buddy', not 'Hutch.' It's Hutchinson. Ken to my grandmother and my parents, and Hutchinson to everyone else--including you! I thought we settled this in Vero Beach."

For the first time since his unexpected arrival, Starsky looked in danger of losing his temper. His eyebrows drew together, his eyes darkened, and Hutchinson's gaze was drawn to the musculature of the catcher's arms. This was not a man to rile without good cause and an even better escape plan. "And my name, for the tenth time, is Starsky," the catcher growled deep in his throat. "With an 'S'! Not Starkey. You've known me two weeks; what, you got amnesia or something?"

"Or something," Hutchinson said in the snottiest tone he could muster. Keep the wall up whatever you do. Give this guy an inch and he'll take ten miles. You don't need him. You get kicked in the back teeth whenever you start to need someone and you know it, Hutchinson, so steer clear! 

Starsky didn't turn around and storm out of the room as Hutchinson had hoped. "Then call me whatever the hell you want. But if you think this Eastern mysticism kick is gonna put life back in your slider, you're fit for the funny-sleeved white jacket to match your white yacht club polo. If this is how they work out pitching kinks in Minnesota, then it's no wonder the Twins--"

Hutchinson was not a man to be riled without an escape plan, either. "You just keep your mouth shut about the Twins, mister, if you want to hang on to your jaw!"

"See, that's part of your problem. No team loyalty to the Dodgers. You still think you're a Twin under your uniform. Well, I'm here to tell you, baseball wasn't invented in Minnesota, pally."

Hutchinson calmly folded his hands in his lap. Otherwise, he’d be balling them into fists. "No? Thank you for the valuable information. Of course, I'm too ignorant to know that baseball was actually--"

"Decided by the Mills Commission in 1907 to have been originated by Abner Doubleday in Cooperstown, New York in 1839. New York. My home state. Now we got that dick-measuring contest out of the way, will you listen to me for a change?"

Hutchinson hoped he wasn't showing his astonishment at Starsky's command of baseball history. "I appreciate your willingness to help, but you're a catcher. You've probably never pitched an inning in your entire career from Little League onward. What do you know about finessing a slider?"

Starsky crossed over to sit down on the locker bench just a few feet from Hutchinson's sacred spot on the floor. "Why don't I tell what you're doing wrong and you tell me if I know what I'm talking about?" 

Hutchinson gritted his teeth. So much for steering clear. "Fine."

"Not here." Starsky left the bench and went over to dig around in his team duffle. He said without looking over his shoulder, "Get your glove. You're coming out on the field."

"Now? That's crazy. It's so early even the home team isn't out there practicing."

"Which means it's the best time for what I have in mind." With wildly dancing eyebrows, Starsky offered him a grin that promised several kinds of trouble. 

Hutchinson couldn't conceal a gasp of alarm. Surely the man wasn't brazen enough to pull some kind of fast move in the middle of the Astrodome. Of all my damned luck to land on probably the only team in the Major Leagues with a bisexual catcher. An annoying, in-your-face, touchy-feely-- Acutely aware of his own vulnerability, Hutchinson clamped down on that thought before it could run away from him. "If you think for one minute--"

"Hey." Starsky rose, lifting both hands in surrender, one wearing the catcher's mitt he had produced from his duffle. "Why are you worried? Few minutes ago, you were convinced I couldn't think, period."

Scolding himself for silliness, Hutchinson grabbed his glove from his locker, and followed Starsky out onto the diamond. Once they reached the pitcher's mound, Starsky picked up the rosin bag, tossed it hand to hand, and then called over to the visiting team dugout, where a member of the Astros' cleaning crew was sweeping beneath the bench. "Hey, Carl, is there a spare ball lying around over there somewhere?"

The middle-aged man straightened and waved his acknowledgment before rummaging around the dugout. 

Hutchinson frowned. "You know his name?"

"'Course I know his name." Starsky actually seemed confused by the question.

"There's no 'of course' about it. He's a member of the opposing team's cleaning crew. Hell, most guys don't know the cleaning crew on their own team. I don't, for that matter."

Starsky shrugged. "I do. So what? I bumped into this guy on my way in here today, and we talked about his kid who's in high school and figuring on playing ball. Sounds like the kid has talent. He's coming to the game today."

"I suppose you offered to meet up with him and his dad after the game and offer a few words of baseball advice. Let me guess: this kid just happens to want to spend his career behind home plate like you."

Starsky thrust his chin out and pointed at Hutchinson with his mitt hand. "Anybody ever tell you you're a regular shaft of sunlight? Matter of fact, I did, and yeah, he does. You got a problem with that?" The belligerent look was back again.

Hutchinson fought a smile. "No, I . . . Do you think he'd want to meet a pitcher?"

Starsky's belligerence switched to a bright smile that seemed to draw a few hundred degrees from the Texas sun. Hutchinson glanced up at the Astrodome's roof that blocked the sun. Okay, so all the warmth was coming from the show of Starsky teeth. Hutchinson shook off the sensation of heat. Starsky play-punched him in the shoulder. "Hey, that'd be great of you. Whoa--head's up, he found a ball!"

With plenty of time to react, Hutchinson leisurely flipped his gloved hand out and snagged the ball that Carl had tossed their way. "Carl's got an arm on him. Okay, oh wise guru, what am I doing wrong?"

"Show me your slider grip."

Hutchinson complied but nearly jerked his arm back at a dangerous angle when Starsky lightly gripped his wrist and bent over to examine the placement of fingers on the ball in the manner of a physician assessing a wound. "Two first fingers close together. Good. Off-center. Good. Along the length of the seam. Yep. Your grip's not the problem. For now I won't set up for you behind the plate. Just wind up and let me see you hurl one. All the way to the backstop, who cares, I just wanna see how you throw it."

Certain he was wasting his time, Hutchinson moved into his standard wind-up and delivered his best slider, watching in dismay as his best slider failed miserably, slowing down to well below fastball speed and missing the crucial down-and-away break that would put him at an advantage against right-handed batters. Starsky snapped his fingers and did a funny little dance that oddly mixed elements of the Jitterbug and Merengue. Hutchinson glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Thankfully, no, not even Carl, who was swiping a cloth over the dugout bench. 

"Will you quit that," Hutchinson urged in a part hiss, part whisper. "What's the big deal?"

"I know what's wrong with your pitch, Blondie, that's the big deal," Starsky crowed, still swiveling his hips. 

"The name--" Hutchinson started through clenched teeth.

Starsky froze. "Hutchinson. I know, I know. Sheesh. What's in a name?"

"You tell me, Mr. Starkey, you tell me."

Brushing aside the insult with a sweep of his glove, Starsky trotted over to retrieve the ball and juggled it in a tight circle on his way back to the mound. "Thing is, you're trying to use wrist action to get what you want out of it, and that's the way to end up with serious arm hurt, amigo. The slider ain't about wrist action. It's all in the seam and that little pull downward on release. You're trying to control the pitch itself, not pitch placement. You're all about control, but it's the wrong kinda control. You need the confidence to loosen up."

"Why do I have the sneaking suspicion you're talking about more than baseball?"

"I'm saying you've been taking some hits in the real world. A trade you didn't want, moving to a city you don't want to live in, and your--um--marriage. I know the rules," Starsky said when Hutchinson raised a warning finger, "we're not talking about her. But deep water you wade through in the real world finds a way onto the diamond, buddy boy. You have to deal with it."

Both hands on his hips, Hutchinson lost the struggle not to sneer. "Assuming I agree with you, Dr. Freudsky, what do you suggest?"

"You got to know you own this mound. I own that plate over there." Starsky jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of home plate. "That turf is mine. Batters get to stand in that batter's box 'cause I'm gracious enough to let 'em. Get it? This mound is yours. Whatever stadium we're in, the pitcher's mound is the pitcher's kingdom."

"Tell Dobey that when he comes out of the dugout to yank a pitcher from the game."

Starsky frowned. "It's not what he thinks. It's what you think. So we need to give this mound back to you right now."

"How?" Hutchinson didn't want to sound plaintive or eager, but he knew he was open to just about any suggestion that would make the pitcher's mound feel like a place he belonged again. 

"Fight me for it."

Maybe not any suggestion. "What?"

Tossing his glove to the ground, Starsky backed down off the mound and hunched over in what looked like preparation to serve as a human battering ram. "How much you know about football?"

"Enough to converse on the subject. Why?" The obvious reason why dawned on him, and Hutchinson let out a groan of exasperation. "Football? You said I couldn't solve a baseball problem with meditation, but you want to solve it with football? Or is this an excuse for you to exorcise some regret that you weren't picked up by the NFL draft out of high school?"

Starsky temporarily straightened out of his football crouch. "Know what? One more crack like that, and I might forget why I came out here. Yeah, I played some defensive back in high school, but I never wanted to be anything but a pro baseball player. So, wanna try my way or serve up hittable sliders all day to hungry Astros?" 

Hutchinson thought about those hungry Astros. "Let's hear your way."

"You're the defensive nose guard. Pretend you're a big brute of a guy, 300-something pounds, meaner'n sin. I'm the offensive lineman. Just as big, even meaner. This border, right here, where the fake grass turns to dirt and the mound begins, that's the line you're defending. You're not gonna let me over it. All right?"

Hutchinson stared at his teammate. He saw an athletic man in scruffy jeans and Dodgers practice jersey, noted the hugging fit of the jeans to a slender waist and muscles that made the legs graceful not bulky, supporting a body built for power and speed, agility and spontaneity. There was no imagining an ox-like behemoth when facing this perfect baseball physique. "You're out of your mind." 

Starsky's grin was a blatant, animal challenge. "Aw, come on, where's Mr. College Wrestling Champ who threw me down on the floor in Vero Beach? Scared you can't take me? Scared I'm gonna run all over your precious little pitching mound? Just look at me and think about the crap in your life you'd like to show your back to on your way to the big time."

Hutchinson assumed the position of a defensive lineman ready for the snap, bracing his fingers on the ground, and watched Starsky's eyes as his teammate matched his stance. 

"Ready? Set! Go!" Starsky shouted in lieu of a quarterback's play audible. 

Hutchinson pushed forward into the bulk that was Starsky. They wrestled in a clashing, grunting, football embrace, each trying to out-push the other.

"What the hell?" yelled a voice that certainly did not belong to Carl, from the vicinity of the visiting dugout. 

They ignored the voice and its implications. Hutchinson summoned all his strength, swearing under breath as he tried to force Starsky away from the border of the mound. He closed his eyes but couldn't shut out a mental parade of faces: his father, who never wanted him to play ball in the first place; Vanessa, who tired of the life of a baseball player's wife but never tired of spending the money; Gil White, Minnesota's cutthroat front office executive who had forced through his trade; Vic Rankin, the beleaguered Twins' manager, who almost cried when he broke the news that Hutchinson had to pack his bags for a new life in LA; his grandmother and her brave front on his departure. Hutchinson groaned out loud and gave a frantic shove that toppled Starsky over on his back on the artificial grass. The "defensive nose guard" lay sprawled over the curly-haired "offensive lineman" in a triumphant tackle. 

"Ooomph! I wish I'd thought for us to do this in a ballpark with real grass." Starsky began to laugh. "You win. The mound is yours. Won't ever try to take it away from you again. Wanna get off me, you big lug, while I can still breathe?"

Hutchinson rose up on elbow and considered his teammate. What he saw in those happy, snapping blue eyes went beyond team spirit and camaraderie. Shining back at him was an emotion that surpassed lust and attraction. Breathless from exertion and confronting his inner demons, Hutchinson felt the warmth of Starsky's silent offering envelope him. 

Friendship. Honest to God friendship. My God. He wants to be my friend. 

The moment shattered under the approach of heavy footsteps accentuated by the fake turf and an impossible-to-ignore bass thundering. "Both of you! Off that ground now, or I'll find a way to get you suspended for ten games apiece!"

Hutchinson hastily found his footing and reached down to offer his catcher a hand, ridiculously thrilled that Starsky let him pull him to his feet. 

Captain Dobey glared at both of them with murder in his eyes. "I suppose one of you geniuses is going to give me a valid reason why my star catcher and newest righty are brawling on the opposing team's field just hours before game time?"

"Star catcher?" Starsky said, beaming like a kid given a gold star by the teacher. 

Dobey whirled on him. "The title isn't etched in stone, Starsky, trust me! Simmons would love a crack at it!"

"We weren't brawling, Captain," Hutchinson said. "We were--" 

"Yes, Hutchinson? I'm all ears. What were you doing?"

"We were working on our pitcher-catcher chemistry." Hutchinson winced at the lame words as soon as they left his mouth. 

Dobey's glare turned more menacing, a feat Hutchinson hadn't thought possible seconds ago. "Really? Is that what that was?"

"Really, Cap'n," Starsky said, standing close enough to Hutchinson to spontaneously fuse into his side. "Working on his quirky slider, actually."

"You must think I'm stupid. You've been sniping and growling at each other like two dogs chained in the same junkyard since Hutchinson arrived. Now you expect me to believe you haven't come to outright blows?"

"You want proof?" Starsky ducked to retrieve the forgotten baseball and his glove. "No problem. Hutch--er, Hutchinson, just give me a chance to set up behind the plate and then let's see your slider."

"Starsky!" Dobey barked. "You're not suited up to take pitches."

"Oh, who cares, Cap'n? He won't be aiming for my teeth . . . I hope." Starsky jogged over to the plate and settled into perfect placement to receive a well-pitched slider.

Hutchinson rolled his eyes. They were officially dead. Benched, if not suspended, maybe sent back to AAA-ball. The little psychological exercise of Starsky's had been clever and sincere, and maybe the promise of friendship would produce dividends in the future, but there was no way it had miraculously cured his lumbering slider. Dobey will never believe-- With the heavy thoughts literally weighing him down, Hutchinson's wind up lacked grace, but the slider pulled downward out of his hands and zipped toward home, cutting into a sharp breakaway at the end that would leave right-handers swinging out of their shoes at nothing. 

Starsky gloved the ball with ease and sprinted up to the mound to lock arms with a stunned Hutchinson, spinning him in a pennant-winning, end-of-the-game victory circle. 

Dobey whistled. "Where've you been hiding that, Hutchinson? One hell of a slider. Luke Huntley was right. You might have a few Cy Young years in you, after all." He shook a fist at his celebrating players. "Listen up. I don't care what you were doing out here. If it worked, it worked. But it better be the last time. I can't afford to have players risking career-ending injuries pretending they're in the NFL when they're not even suited up for baseball. You want to work on pitcher-catcher chemistry, here's how you do it. As of this minute, you're team hotel roommates. On every road trip, you hear me? That's whether you like it or not, Hutchinson. Under those conditions, you'll either get in synch or kill each other and save me the trouble of booting your tails back to the Minors."

Dizzy from being swung around like a rag doll, Hutchinson extricated his arms from Starsky's and nodded. "All right with me, Captain."

Starsky's eyes grew wide with disbelief, but he said nothing.

Dobey huffed. "Good. Now you boys get back to the locker room and suit up properly. Team meeting in less than an hour." He stalked off toward the visitor's dugout. 

"Hey, Hutchinson," Starsky spoke at half his usual volume, "I'm glad we got your slider back on track, but I can't promise that rooming together will solve the rest of your pitching problems, if that's what you're thinking."

"Maybe not, but it's a worth a shot. And call me Hutch."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "You mean it? Sure you're not setting me up for some nasty little retaliation? Maybe come in and turn the water to cold when I'm in the shower?"

Hutchinson let his lips curve into the beginning of a smile. "You're getting to know me well. No sudden ice water in the shower, I promise. The truth? You're not the first person to think of calling me that. I guess it's an inevitable nickname. On my old team, Jack Mitchell tried calling me 'Hutch.' I put a stop to it as soon as I could."

"Jack Mitchell, the forty homers a year, '74 AL Gold Glove catcher? Jeezus, I'd forgotten you were pitching to him. Man."

Hutchinson wondered if the play tackling had impacted his hearing. Was there really a hint of insecurity in Starsky's words? A weak spot in the armor of bravado Starsky wore as naturally as his skin? He squeezed the back of Starsky's neck, amazed and a little frightened by how quick the urge to touch came over him. Well, why not? The lunatic just twirled me around in a baseball Maypole Dance right in front of the manager, who seemed to think it wasn't worth noticing. "Jack's not the team player you are. He's a good ballplayer, but he could teach me a thing or two about self-importance. Like how he said 'Hutch.' Sounded like a family doctor scolding the little boy who ate too much cake and wound up with a stomachache. I couldn't stand it. When you say it . . . " Hutchinson hated the blush he knew was starting around his ears and creeping toward his cheeks. "You say it like I fit, like I belong."

Starsky dared to ruffle Hutchinson's hair. "You do belong. You're the piece of the puzzle we've been missing the last few years. You let the other guys know you care about fitting, and they'll warm up to you in no time. Huggy likes you."

"Only because you--"

"Uh-uh," Starsky interrupted. "The only person who has that kind of influence on Huggy is Huggy. If he didn't like you, nothing I could do or say would win him over. I'll call you Hutch if you do me one favor."

Hutchinson braced himself for anything from a foot massage to dibs on the post-game locker room Jacuzzi the players used to loosen up exhausted muscles. "What's that?"

"You drop the Mr. Starkey shit."

Hutchinson tried out another smile: not full-fledged, he could tell, but it had potential and even felt good. "You got a deal, Starsssssky."

Laughing at the goofy exaggeration of the all-important "S," Starsky lightly tweaked him in the side. "Now that's more like it." He winked. "Hutch."

Hutch. It works. Coming from him, it works . . . .

Feeling newly christened, Hutch wondered why the foundation beneath his feet didn't tremble. A person's identity, the name he carried in his head for decades, couldn't change in the space of half an hour without some echo in the cosmos or in nature. He knew he would think of himself as Hutch for the rest of his life, wherever he went, however far fate might take him away from the man who had made him accept the nickname. 

Not far, if fate knew what was good for it. After all, he might need a few more tackles to keep his slider up to speed.

~~~~~~~  
St. Louis, Missouri  
May 1975

"Double cheeseburger with chili fries for your thoughts?"

Starsky spun around from his contemplation of the unique St. Louis skyline. He'd been wondering what it would feel like to climb to the very top of the Arch, on the outside, and sit there swinging his legs out into space. Nah. Heights weren't his strong suit anyway. His nose picked up the distinctive aroma of four-alarm chili with an underlying hint of potato and grease, but the chili fries masked the smell of hamburger, and suspicion flared. 

"Hutch, if that's another tuna burger with mushrooms, I'll rearrange some of your blondness."

"Are you still hung up on that? God, that was the San Diego series three weeks ago. That restaurant is famous for their tuna, and you said you like trying new foods."

"New foods as in new tacos, new hotdogs, new pizza." Starsky held up three fingers to indicate the holy trinity of fast food. "Not fish. It wasn't even fish hidden in batter. It was flaky fish mixed with mushrooms and served up all disguised in a perfectly good hamburger bun you had me thinking contained a juicy burger. Lie to me all you want, don't lie to my taste buds. And not over something sacred like a burger, as in beef, the only meat that should be slapped between buns."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Hutch said with a kind of throaty, gurgling noise that Starsky could have sworn was laughter. Hutch switched the take-out bag to his left hand and held up his right, intoning, "I do hereby solemnly swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. There is half a cow in this bag and not a mushroom in sight."

"Gimme that." Starsky grabbed for the bag and rushed it over to the balcony's tiny fake-glass topped table. Hutch ducked back through the open sliding door into their room and returned with two lidded Styrofoam cups of soda. Starsky pulled over the other balcony chair for him. "There something in here for you, or did you eat with the guys?"

"I had a salad there and brought back a chicken patty melt, and God help me, I think they stuffed it all the way down under your wrapped 'basket' of chili fries."

Starsky delved into the bag, managing to divvy the eats without creating a mess that would have housekeeping services burning them in effigy. "What's the special occasion?"

"For me to bring you greasy takeout? Didn't know we needed a milestone event." Hutch accepted his sandwich with a nod and unwrapped it slowly. "Now, see, here's another meat that goes perfectly well on a hamburger bun." He broke off a piece of chicken overhanging the bun's edge and popped it into his mouth.

"Yeah." Starsky was already salivating over the fries. "But it's called a chicken sandwich, not a chicken burger. All legit and above board. The guy who thought of putting chipped fish on a bun and calling it a burger probably also sold great American recipes to Castro."

Hutch coughed mid-bite and had to reach frantically for his soda. Just before Starsky was about to leave his seat and perform the Heimlich, Hutch cleared his throat, shaking his head and waving away assistance. "I think we've established how much you hated the tuna burger. It won't be easy broadening your horizons, will it?"

"Broadening my--" Starsky stuck out his tongue to scoop some escaping chili and cheese from his lower lip. "Who says I need my horizons broadened?"

"Don't we all? Aren't we put on this planet to accumulate experiences that teach us how we're all interconnected? You know, this reminds me. I was reading a fascinating article in National Geographic the other day about this village all the way in Azerbaijan . . . ."

Hutch rattled on about ancient people in some out of the way village, and Starsky peered at him, torn between warring desires. On the one hand, ever since Hutch had gotten over his hard ass routine and started talking to him, Starsky loved to listen to him talk about everything from apples to zebras, and the philosophical chatter had Starsky shifting in his seat to alleviate the side effects of denim-to-dick contact. On the other hand, he had to protect Hutch from himself. If the other guys heard Hutch talking that stuff, they might think he was loose a few screws in some vital location. Peter Whitelaw was known to read some real ivory tower books, but he didn't go around dispensing the information like candy from a Pez toy. Hutch doesn't either, come to think of it, except around me. Trying to impress me, pal? 

Starsky felt he should issue a gentle warning anyway, just in case. "Don't take this wrong way, Hutch, but sometimes you don't talk like a ballplayer."

Hutch exaggerated a flinch. "Ouch. If we're down to hurling insults like that, I've seen some of the reading material you pull out of your duffle. How many ballplayers pack Ginsberg and Kerouac for road trips?"

Starsky didn't blush often, but when he did he felt it all the way to his toes. He countered by giving Hutch his sultriest, I'm-the-man-mommas-warn-their-daughters-about, come-and-get-it grin. "More would if they knew how fast quoting that far out jive lands me horizontal with some of the cutest honeys. Seems to work especially well with blondes." Step one, get him thinking about you and sex. Step two, he'll think about you having sex. Step three, if the bisexual gods know their shit, he'll be changing the gender of that blonde in his mind. 

"Oh?" Hutch paused with his mouth hovering an inch from his sandwich and looked up. "Is that why you were almost late to the team plane this afternoon? Off seducing some poor, unsuspecting female with Beat Generation poetry?"

Wouldn't you like to know? "Worried about me?" Starsky leaned forward just enough to give the impression of closing in on his dining partner.

Hutch settled back in his chair and waved his napkin in a fanning motion under his chin. "Worried I'd have to lie to Dobey to keep your gallivanting hide out of the sling he was starting to manufacture from thin air." He dropped the napkin and went back to picking at his sandwich. "That's the only reason for your eclectic taste in reading?"

"Nomgoodeshxistemntial," Starsky strove to enunciate through a mouthful of fries. He gave up and swallowed first. "No good existential baseball books out there. I'm still waiting for you to write Zen and the Art of Slider Maintenance."

Hutch was making that soft, gurgling, suspiciously-like-laughter noise again. "Touché. Damn, conversation with you is like a Byzantine maze. How did we get all the way here from tuna burgers?"

"Not a clue, but you know what they say. It's all about the journey. Ready to tell me what has you buying me food I actually like?"

"The way you keep making that sound like a miracle, I should be offended." Hutch failed at looking offended. "Okay, I confess. When you were quiet the whole flight in today, I figured something was off. Let's face it: silence isn't your favorite pastime. When you didn't want to go out with the guys to one of the most famous burger joints in St. Louis, I decided to bribe you with cheddar-smothered beef to tell me what's got you worked up."

Starsky was busily munching the cheddar-smothered beef. He swallowed hard, dabbed at his mouth with the corner of the sandwich wrapper, and gulped down soda. "I'll be facing Tom Cole tomorrow. He killed me in Spring Training. I went down swinging like a first year Little Leaguer. Why the White Sox traded him to the Cards is a mystery to me. Damn American League teams oughta keep their pitchers to themselves." The unfortunate words rang in his ears, and he raised a sheepish glance just in time to see Hutch's relaxed expression tense. 

"Present company included or excluded?" Hutch asked without harshness.

Starsky mulled offering Hutch the chance to flog him with a French fry. "You know what I mean. Jesus, you gotta know!" You do know, dammit. You know I want you bad enough to jump off this hotel balcony and sprout wings for you if that would get you between the sheets of my bed in there. 

"I know," Hutch said, oddly echoing Starsky's thoughts, the sudden gruffness in his voice speaking of a lump in his throat. 

A lump born of fear, nerves, or anticipation? Starsky couldn't tell. He accepted the statement at face value to mean that Hutch knew he would've been welcomed if he had come over from the Siberian Coal Miners League. 

"Tom Cole's got you looking hard at your swing?" Hutch set aside his half-eaten chicken sandwich and fastidiously wiped his hands with not one but two napkins. "I might just be able to help you with that one."

Starsky dropped his handful of chili fries back in the red-and-white-checked paperboard basket. "Hunh? Hutch, the problem is that murderous knuckleball he's got. It's not even a regular knuckleball, which'd be bad enough. It's got some secret trick to it, and Cole's managed to keep the secret since he hit the bigs. Guards it better than an armored truck. The scouts can't figure it out. Pitching coaches can't nail it down. Sports writers would sell their white-haired grandmas for one clue. You're telling me you know how to hit his secret knuckleball? Left-handed, at that?"

Hutch's expression turned superior. Starsky barely resisted the urge to throw his smelly burger wrapper at the sexy, know-it-all face. "I remember thinking a certain catcher couldn't help me nurse a slider back to health, but I've been racking up a few more strikeouts since last month's Houston series."

"Point taken," Starsky said. "What's the scoop?"

"The scoop is, Cole's been keeping the secret of his knuckleball all the way back to his Pony League days. Of course, I didn't find out about it until college."

"Back to his--?" For this, Starsky even put down his cheeseburger. "Wait a minute. Don't tell me. Don't tell me--"

"You got it. U of M. I was one of the groomsmen who married him off to a little, redheaded sweetheart named Ellie not long before he signed with Chicago and I went with Minnesota. If there's one thing that can be said for college baseball, it's the all-night, athletic dorm, keg of beer, bull-shooting session with your teammates. And one night, when the number of drunk-but-conscious ballplayers had dwindled down to just Tom and me, he spilled his guts about his big secret. Next morning, he asked me to promise I'd never tell a soul. It was the only thing he could count on to keep him moving forward in baseball, that killer knuckleball."

"Oh-h, ma-a-an," Starsky drew the words out to several syllables, wanting to stall the next words that his integrity demanded but his competitiveness urged him to swallow down with soda. "Our hitting coach would have me pickin' divots off his favorite golf course with my teeth if he heard me say this, and Dobey would have me shot, but I can't let you--" He smacked a greasy palm to his forehead. "What the hell am I saying? This is baseball. You were the guy's teammate, not his shrink. Go ahead and tell me."

"No."

Starsky was flabbergasted. "You mean you weren't about to tell me?"

"Nope."

"Aw, f'the love of--! Two words, hm? Just two. I'll put it together from there."

"Starsky--"

"I know!" Starsky snapped his fingers. "We can reenact that night. You can be Cole, I'll be you, and we'll down about twenty beers between us, then you tell me."

"I won't break my promise, Starsk." Hutch's face was deadly serious, but the shortened version of Starsky's name softened the refusal. "Not just because of loyalty to a former teammate. Promises mean something to me. More than just words."

Starsky wondered when the lump had transferred from Hutch's throat to his own. He had a hard time forcing down the bite of burger. Forget Galahad, Davey boy, trust you to get a hard-on for King Arthur himself. "How're you planning on helping me then?"

"You've never heard of a loophole?" Hutch didn't smile, but the light in his eyes was a passable equivalent. "I won't tell you anything. Tomorrow, we'll get to the field early for batting practice with the batter's net, and I'll throw--"

"Hutch!" Starsky cut in quickly. He had to grip the table edge with both hands to keep from waving them in a crisscross motion of refusal, but his mouth, governed by his concern for Hutch, opened in spite of himself. "No. Nuh-uh. No way. You try to mimic another pitcher's style, and you're liable to screw up your own arsenal of pitches. Blaine would do somersaults on my head after all the time he's spent working with you the last couple weeks."

Hutch shook his head and wadded up his sandwich wrapper, tossing it with perfect aim into the half-open bag. "Don't worry. I'm in better control of my pitches than that, and I'm not pitching tomorrow. I'll have plenty of time to rest my arm before my next outing. I can help you without putting myself at risk."

"Hutch."

"Starsk, I can help you hit Cole's best pitch, but you'll have to trust me. In return, I'll have to trust you. If the other guys even find out I know about the secret to Cole's knuckleball, I'll be strung up from the nearest tree when I refuse to let them in on it. So, are we in this together, or not? If it all comes down to trust, what'll it be?" 

Starsky stared across the table and realized there would always be only one answer to that particular question. Damn. Why hadn't he figured out from day one that if making friends with Hutch wasn't a simple, one-step dance, the friendship itself was bound to be a complicated waltz? He had one more qualm to overcome before he reached for knuckleball salvation. "If I figure out how to hit his pitch, Cole may think you told me."

Hutch nodded. "Probably. You let me worry about Cole."

"All right. It's a date. You, me, tomorrow, Busch Stadium." He could see in Hutch's eyes that he had passed some kind of test, but only by the skin of his teeth. Hutch was studying him with a mixture of pity and amusement.

"What?"

"You're still worried, aren't you? About me pitching you knuckleballs."

"I said I--" Starsky promptly shut up. What could he say that wouldn't be a giant step  
backward . . . or a step out of rhythm with the music of their dance? 

"It's okay." Hutch's tone sounded purposefully soothing. "Trust takes time. I can't expect you to just accept everything with blind faith."

"I trust you, Hutch. I said we'd go to the field early tomorrow."

"Yeah, and thanks. But you've still got doubts. You're developing a real protective instinct when it comes to me." Looking smug, Hutch picked up his discarded chicken sandwich and took a sizeable bite. 

Starsky felt a twinge of discomfort in his gut. He had wanted that protective streak to be his own business and no one else's. "Any catcher worth his mitt has to look out for his pitcher, dummy." Hutch's honest, open face dared him to cling to the pretense. Well, Starsky decided, if words would get him any closer to his goal, they certainly wouldn't stick in his throat. "So I might just like you a little, too. 'Specially since you stopped being hard to live with. At least most of the time. You got a problem, y'know, with the protective thing?"

Hutch appeared to give the question full consideration. Or maybe he was too busy chewing his food to say anything. Finally, a lifetime later, he said, "It's not something I'm accustomed to, but--it's nice. So let me ease your mind. I'm no knuckleball pitcher. You know that. I've never needed to be. But I know the ingredients of a great knuckleball and even though I've never faced one with a bat on my shoulder, I have an idea what it takes to hit one. For one thing, there's timing."

A flash of inspiration left Starsky feeling deliciously wicked. To disguise his intent, he took a sip of soda and then set the cup down but kept his fingers on the straw, drawing it lightly up and down through the lid. "Oh, I have great timing."

Against visibly strong will to look away, Hutch obediently tracked the movement of Starsky's fingers. He abruptly shook his head and turned his face toward the night sky. "For a knuckleball, especially Cole's, you need perfect timing. Two pitches that also require timing are the changeup and split-finger. I've got a good handle on both of them."

"Yep. I've noticed your handle . . . on difficult pitches. Impressive."

Hutch's head whipped around, and Starsky, looking the picture of innocence, watched him register that the straw had been abandoned in favor of cheeseburger. The blatant relief in Hutch's expressive blue eyes almost made Starsky laugh out loud. "Then--" Hutch coughed and reached for his drink. After a few swallows, his voice didn't squeak. "There's grip. Knowing when to finesse your swing and when to use power hitting force, because you can't ever be sure where that knuckleball is going to end up over the plate." 

"Talkin' to the pro here, blue eyes," Starsky made the last two words sound the best kind of obscene and simultaneously loosened his grip on his burger, nearly caressing the bun as he held the sandwich directly in front of his mouth. "These hands of mine know how to treat a bat just like the wheel of Porsche, all silk and glide, or the wheel in my Torino, which takes a firmer hand. Soft or hard, whatever the situation, I got the touch." His fingers tightened in rhythmic squeezes on the bun and Hutch's eyes locked on the display. "What did you have in mind to improve my grip?"

Hutch was clearly having difficulty finding the soundtrack to go with the movement of his lips. "Fastball," he barked. Starsky smirked. The bark failed to cover the croak in his voice. Throat dry, gorgeous? Again, Hutch reached for his soda, sucked on the straw uselessly, the gurgling noise of an almost empty soda cup testified, and then slammed the cup down on the table. Starsky pushed his half-full drink across the small table, but Hutch glared at the innocent cup like it contained Love Potion No. 9. 

"Fastball," Hutch said again, gaining control of his voice without the benefit of liquid. "At various speeds. I'll pitch you a mix of changeups, split-fingers, and fastballs. You're one hell of a hitter. You find your rhythm on a mixture of those pitches, and you'll be in good position to make contact with Cole's tricky pitch." 

Starsky nodded. "Sounds good. Now there's just one important question left." And it has nothing to do with baseball. "Want some of my fries?" Or food. 

The alarm that showed in Hutch's tensed jaw and wide eyes told Starsky he might as well have asked if Hutch wanted them to get naked and make the hotel send up security to investigate the noise level. Good for Hutch: the brain under that baby-soft blondness wasn't false advertisement. Hutch delivered his answer in a tone that held unmistakable rejection, "Do I look like I want some of your fries?"

A simple no would have kept Starsky's mouth shut on the subject, but the cocky question did him in. Actually? You look like you want me to shove them right down your throat. "Hey, don't get all nose up in the air about my fries. You ain't even tried 'em."

Hutch jabbed a finger at the basket and its congealing chili and cheese. "I'm--It--Looks really--uh--appetizing."

"Then dig in already."

"No, thank you. It's a conscious choice I make, not to eat chili fries."

"Man can't live by tuna burgers alone," Starsky said wisely.

Hutch fled to the balcony railing. "Yeah? Well, maybe this man can."

Starsky watched the nervous pitcher's back muscles tense through his yellow velour pullover. Suddenly Hutch's shoulder twitched as if trying to shed an unwelcome hand in some mental image of Starsky coming up behind him and applying a soft but electric touch there. Starsky smiled. It would really shake the man up to know that Starsky could read him that well. He left his chair and practically tiptoed up to rest a hand on the shoulder. Hutch's grip turned to iron on the railing, and his shoulder twitched on cue, but he accepted the touch. 

"It might shock you," Hutch almost whispered, "but I've had chili fries before. They're not something I'm completely unfamiliar with."

"Glad to hear it. Thought maybe your experience in fast food had been sorely lacking."

"I'm under a lot of pressure right now, trying to find my place on this team's roster, in the middle of divorce proceedings. I really don't need to add spicy foods to my diet."

Starsky rubbed the tight muscles along Hutch's shoulders. "We could start with some mild chili, leave the spicy stuff 'til later?"

"Starsky, you're my friend. I've never had a friend like you. And your friendship just might keep me sane right now. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Sure. No problem."

Hutch continued to stare at the skyline, but his jaw relaxed. "That's it? 'No problem'?"

"Hutch, you don't have to want chili fries to stay on my good side." 

Hutch faced him then. "If I look like I don't believe you, I do, it's just that I'm still getting used to having someone in my life besides my grandmother who really gives a damn about what I need." His smile, though close-lipped, hinted at the ability to burst into a grin, and it dazzled Starsky until he felt slightly dizzy. "In the highly unlikely event that I decide to sample chili fries again, spicy or not, I'll let you know. Promise."

Starsky edged closer to the railing himself, needing to lean against its solidity to correct for weakening knees. "You remember what you said about promises."

"I remember," Hutch said. After another moment of eye contact that solidified the deal, Hutch turned and hurried into their room. Starsky followed and found him rifling through a drawer in his part of their dresser. "I'm going downstairs for a swim." Hutch tucked swim trunks into his team duffle. "You're free to join me."

"Nah. Think I'll stay here and grab a shower."

Hutch started for the door, stopped in his tracks, and half-turned. "You don't mean just a shower shower."

Starsky hooked his fingers through his belt loops and gave the slightest pelvic thrust, just enough to emphasize the hard state of affairs below his waist. What you want me to say, Hutch? That I'll be jacking off under the water to the thought of you in my arms. You can't handle hearing that right now. "Not just a shower shower."

Hutch got the message. With a visible shiver, he left the room.

When Hutch returned an hour later, Starsky had already cleaned off their mess on the balcony table and settled down in bed with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in lieu of anything decent on TV. He pretended not to watch Hutch go through the motions of preparing for bed. As soon as Hutch was safely under the covers of the other double bed, Starsky asked, "Good swim?"

"Sure was." Hutch wrestled his pillow into the desired position and lay on his back, arms folded behind his head. "Good shower?"

Starsky peeked out from behind his newspaper. "You have no idea."

Hutch said nothing for the entire time it took Starsky to read an article about some local National Park Service bidding controversy, and then, through a loud yawn, came a sleepy voice, "How about letting me hear some of that Beat writing you've memorized."

Starsky laughed. "Hutch, I was putting you on. Believe me, I usually rely on less subtle techniques to get girls. I don't go around quoting poetry to anybody. Not my style."

"Sorry I asked."

"You're not anybody," Starsky reassured him. "You're my best pal." He heard a slight gasp from the other bed's occupant. "What?"

"Nothing," Hutch said quietly.

That settled it for Starsky. He was more into Kerouac's novels, but he trolled his memory for snatches of poetry. Reaching over to click off the lamp over their shared nightstand, uncertain his inner tough guy could handle spouting poetry in bright light, Starsky said, "Well, there's this little gem: You are the golden eternity, because there is no me and no you, only one golden eternity. Or I kinda like this one: The taste of rain--Why kneel?" He paused to think of more, and in the absence of his own voice he was astonished to hear a telltale hitched breathing and rhythmic rustling of covers in the other bed. 

"Are you--?" he asked before he thought better of it.

He expected Hutch to explode at him with indignation or, worse, freeze and barely speak to him for a couple of days. Instead, Hutch said, breathlessly, "Yes."

"Fine by me. Guess you couldn't exactly do that in the pool downstairs." Starsky grinned in the darkness. Highly unlikely event, hell. Might take months, maybe even a year or more, but Hutch would find his taste for chili fries again, and Starsky would be there when he did. In the meantime, Starsky had a friend who would bring him greasy takeout and offer to help with pesky knuckleball pitchers. Not a bad set of circumstances. 

Not bad at all. 

~~~~~~~

Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles   
June 1975

Hutch smacked gum and studied the scouting reports on the batters due up in the top of the fifth. The greatest challenge of switching leagues was learning a whole new crop of hitters, since the leagues never played each other during the season, and only the two teams that made it to the Series met each other in the post-season. Today Terry Nash was on the mound against Cincinnati, but tomorrow Hutch was up to face the Reds, and he wanted to be ready.

Commotion on the other end of the dugout drew his attention. Starsky and the Black Baron, the burly first baseman and amateur pilot whose nickname said it all, were engaged in dueling dance moves to some inaudible music both could obviously hear in their heads. Half the dugout had convulsed in laughter over the scene, the purpose of which was probably to rattle the opposing team's pitcher. Hutch had to smile. 

David Starsky had at least ten sides to his personality, and Hutch ached to explore beneath that multifaceted surface, down deep where he suspected even more interesting aspects to Starsky's character lay hidden. So far Hutch had seen the serious student of the game of baseball--Starsky could quote stats and play-by-plays from games stretching back to Honus Wagner, decades before his own conception--the practical joker, the fearless friend, the man blind to skin color, the voracious reader, the fierce competitor, the childlike enthusiast, the ladies' man, and the suave sexual force. 

Hutch gulped and hoped no one heard. 

Bisexuality was no albatross around Hutch's neck. He had accepted his ability to switch-hit in bed during his freshman year in college, but accepting the theory and putting it to practice differed somewhat. Short of late-night dorm fooling around, and never in the athletic dorm or with a teammate, Hutch had little experience, and Starsky flat out scared him with his projection of confidence. That, Hutch knew, more than any other excuse he tried to hide behind, was probably the sole reason he hadn't already climbed into Starsky's bed during one of their road trips. Dobey's insistence that the forced closeness of rooming together at the team hotel on away stretches would either cement pitcher-catcher chemistry or drive Starsky and Hutch to murder each other proved he knew his business as a manager. They were still alive and well . . . 

…and the closeness had developed chemistry, all right. 

Hutch had to take an especially deep breath after that thought. Sex appeal, hell. Starsky didn't need to show off his stellar ass in a tight baseball uniform. Drape the man in a tarp, and he'd still find a way to dazzle and captivate: maybe with the flash of a grin, or an intense stare from dark blue eyes that showed as many moods as the North Atlantic. Desire, Hutch could handle. Understand. Suppress. But from the first day of their acquaintance, Starsky had begun a devious campaign of slipping beneath Hutch's radar and ending up underneath his skin. 

Not usually one to let others influence him, Hutch had already started to view his teammates through Starsky's eyes. John Colby, for instance. The handsome and snobbish shortstop did not rank on Starsky's list of favorites. If Starsky were a cop, Hutch would say the man smelled criminal all over Colby. That had made Hutch reluctant to reach out to Colby, although he and the Stanford graduate had common ground in some areas. Or Peter Whitelaw, also known affectionately as "Schoolteacher," because he could so often be found nursing some random college textbook like a beer. Starsky seemed to like the quiet third baseman, but he also exhibited a little discomfort at times around him, as if he sensed something in Peter that hit too close to home. Hutch had found himself experiencing a similar discomfort, unable to identify its source. Starsky also tended to steer clear of Billy Desmond outside of practice and game time. That wasn't hard to do. The star left-handed pitcher was a loner on his most sociable days, and he hadn't given Hutch the warmest welcome, either. 

Starsky palled around with Huggy "Bear" Brown, Roger "The Black Baron" Robinson, Paco "Taco" Ortega, J.D. "Turkey" Turquet, and Jackson "Papa" Walters. So Hutch did, too. On many teams, pitchers tended to hang out with pitchers, and fielders formed their own off-the-field cliques. Hutch had been closest to the other pitchers during his stint with the Twins. But now . . . Hutch wanted to be wherever Starsky was. 

Hearing a Dixie accent rise in volume, Hutch glanced over at Turkey and had to hold in chuckles. Listening to the Southern left fielder converse with Brooklyn-native Starsky could generate more laughter than Abbot-Costello routines, but when Huggy and Taco joined in, watch out: the Tower of Babel had nothing on such a mixture of idiom and regional slang. Often, Walters and the Black Baron stood back and watched, shaking their heads in unison. They were the oldest starters on the team. Jackson, a hard-hitting right fielder, had a teenage son he worshiped, showing off numerous pictures to anyone remotely interested and thereby earning his nickname "Papa."

Sensing John Blaine's eyes on him, Hutch ducked back into his scouting reports like a student caught napping in class. The pitching coach had a relentless work ethic that hospitalization had only temporarily slowed. A shadow fell over him, and Hutch looked up to find that Blaine had abandoned his conversation with Peter, who was now up to bat after a lead-off, seeing-eye single courtesy of Huggy. Blaine sat down beside Hutch, but Hutch didn't acknowledge him yet. The next batter due up after Whitelaw, Starsky had grabbed lumber ringed with a weighted "donut" and was busily taking practice swings in the on-deck circle. 

Yeah, that jaw-dropping sight never failed to fascinate. 

To Hutch's interested eyes, Starsky turned the on-deck circle into a go-go stage. Swinging muscular arms and the seductive swivel of hips that emphasized Starsky's ass instantly entranced Hutch, and the batting helmet, though matting Starsky's glorious curls, drew a watcher's eyes to the rugged face. The eroticism grew dizzying when Starsky practiced "checking" his swing. Instead of following through in a full arc, Starsky stopped the bat short with a quick jerk right in front of his groin, and the picture he made with the bat jutting out and his hands grasping its base burned Hutch's mouth to cinders. 

"Hutch," Blaine said. 

Hutch reluctantly looked away from the dirty dance. "Yeah?"

Blaine had an oddly knowing smile on his face. "Feeling ready for tomorrow? You're studying scouting reports you already read in the first inning."

"No harm in reading them twice." Hutch spotted telltale movement on the base path. "Whoop! There goes Huggy!" 

Iron Mike Ferguson, the first base coach, had surreptitiously brushed his chest in the okay sign for Huggy to attempt a steal, and the skinny speed demon reached second base before the catcher could get out of his squat. Cheering erupted in the dugout, and Hutch turned back to Blaine, only to find the coach's eyes riveted on Peter, who'd stepped out of the batter's box to tap dust off his cleats with his bat.

"Johnny?"

Blaine cleared his throat. "Um. Meant to ask. How's it going with Starsky? Four-and-four right now, breaking even, that's not so bad your first couple of months with the team, and I've watched you warm up with him, but I need to hear it from you. Do you feel in control of your game with him behind the plate?"

Hutch considered. "His signs were tough to read at first. He's got a shorthand, you know, more than most catchers. Like he talks. I'm glad he doesn't mind me shaking off signs until I get comfortable."

"Meaning, he lets you boss him." Blaine laughed. 

Hutch glared at him. "That's an unfair way of viewing it."   
"Sorry, but there it is. I've seen you do it. Not uncommon for a guy trying to reacquaint himself with his own arm after a bad stretch. But what's amazing is Starsky lets you get away with it. He won't take it from any other pitcher on the squad, haven't you noticed?" Blaine glanced across the field at the bullpen. "Desmond would love to take the game out of Starsky's hands, but Starsky won't let him, and Desmond's whining in my ear that he gives you too much leeway."  
"We're still trying to find a rhythm, I think.” Hutch smiled, but his tone was still too sharp, defensive, and he wondered why he sensed a threat, when Blaine had every right to analyze his compatibility with Starsky on the diamond. 

"I know. That's why I haven't called you on it before now. Look, I don't mean to lecture you on the basics, but pitch selection is primarily the catcher's job, and it's the pitcher's job to execute the called pitches to the best of his ability, achieving the desired result. It's a partnership, Hutch, one of the most beautiful bonds in sports. Nothing like it in football, basketball, hockey."

"I never felt Jack Mitchell was my partner," Hutch said, remembering his tense interaction with the Twins' star catcher. 

"Then he wasn't the right man behind the plate." Blaine's soft smile appeared again. "Let me tell you something. For a twenty-five-year-old guy just three years out of the minors, David Starsky is one of the smartest catchers in the game today. Look what he did for your slider. Don't shake him off too much, Hutch. Go with his flow, and you'll be amazed what the two of you can accomplish."

Having pop flied out to right field after a long round of fighting off pitches with foul tips and long flies into foul territory, Peter returned to the dugout and Starsky took his turn in the batter's box. An eloquent nod was exchanged between Blaine and Whitelaw, who slumped on the bench and flung his batting helmet to the floor at his feet.

With a pat on his pitcher's shoulder, Blaine headed back to his former place on the bench, and Hutch concentrated on Starsky's at-bat. After two low and away pitches that fooled Starsky not a whit, the Reds' pitcher made the mistake of putting one right in Starsky's wheelhouse, waist-high and over the heart of the plate. Starsky's bat cracked against stitched leather with that inimitable sound and the dugout bench emptied of players, everyone taking steps forward to "see" where the ball landed. With a firm lead off from second, Huggy rounded third and cruised into home. Watching every move of muscle in Starsky's legs, Hutch was sorry to see the motion end when Starsky ended up at third with a standing triple. 

"Yes!" Hutch leaped up, banging his head on the dugout's overhang in the process.

"Da-ah-mn, Hutch!" Turkey drawled. "I'm shore Starsky appreciates the support, good buddy, but he wouldn't want you busting your noggin."

Blushing and more embarrassed by his blush than his occasional clumsiness, Hutch subsided on the bench and went back to his scouting reports. Only after a few seconds did he realize he'd turned them upside down. He glanced up to see if anyone else noticed and, satisfied that he wasn't the object of attention, he let his eyes stray toward third base. Starsky's eyes were glued on him. Adjusting himself, kicking his cleats against the bag, then purposely, discreetly adjusting his crotch again, Starsky winked at him. 

Scouting reports. Yes. Got to be ready. 

Hutch vowed not to look at the field again until Nash took the mound. 

~~~~~~~

Jarry Park, Montreal   
August 1975

"You're listening to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980, and I'm Bill Evans along with Pat Guiterez, welcoming you to Montreal and Jarry Park, home of the Expos, for the last outing of a four-game set that hasn't gone the Dodgers' way. Pat, yesterday's finish was especially disappointing."

"Right. Billy Desmond, last year's National League Cy Young winner, and widely touted as one of the game's best left-handed pitchers, pitched solidly until the eighth inning, when he got into trouble, loading the bases with a bloop single and two walks."

"To give Harold Dobey credit for loyalty, Pat, he stuck with Desmond after he struck out the next two batters. A gutsy move by the manager but a mistake in the final analysis. It came down to Jimmy Spencer, the Expos' powerful switch hitter, who came up to bat swinging right-handed. Really, Pat, the whole game came down to one pitch. Desmond was ahead in the count, with Spencer down 0-2, when he seemed to get his signals crossed with David Starsky."

"Bill, I think Starsky had the right pitch selection. From our vantage point, he was clearly urging a changeup on the outside corner of the plate, but Desmond had something else in mind. Even after a brief conference on the mound, Desmond chose to go with an inside curve ball, and Spencer parked it in the left-center seats for a grand slam. The Expos took a four-run lead, and the Dodgers were unable to make up the difference in the ninth. All in all, one of the more frustrating outings in the season."

"Well, today we have the up-and-coming right-hander Ken Hutchinson on the mound. Hutchinson--known to teammates as Hutch--was struggling at the end of last season with Minnesota, but with the Dodgers he's gotten his earned run average down to 2.62, and a win today would give him a 16-11 record heading into the last few weeks of this season. Sports writers across the country have noticed close teamwork between Hutch and Starsky, and are giving that credit for Hutch's improvement on the mound."

"I definitely think Hutch is fitting in with this team better than he did in Minnesota, Bill. And the teamwork you mentioned is striking to say the least. Starsky has to use fewer hand signals when Hutch is on the mound, so we often have no idea what pitch is headed to the plate until the ball leaves Hutch's glove. Plus, Hutch has developed a deceptive delivery, and his pick-off move has caught more than a few runners napping at first."

~~~~~~~

Hutch came to bat in the seventh with two outs and the bases empty, and Starsky knew the inexperienced hitter was relieved. Hutch had yet to master the art of bunting, and with no one on base to advance by the play, he could stand at the plate and swing away to his heart's content. 

Starsky watched him intently. For a man officially divorced two months, Hutch didn't act shell-shocked. Instead he had a glow about him, and warmth had melted the ice from both his voice and expression. He still wielded a sizable vocabulary that he could turn into a weapon, but he acted nothing like the man Starsky met at Vero Beach. 

Huggy had noticed the transformation, too. The Bear began what he called a Hutchinson Smile Count. He told Starsky the smile count was increasing at the same rate Hutch's earned run average was decreasing, and Huggy said he doubted the improvement in pitching had anything to do with it. Smiles were still limited to darting, closed-lip appearances, but each one made Starsky feel elevated on a cloud of joy. Whenever Starsky caused soft laughter to bubble from beautiful Hutchinson lips, he almost believed he could live without food if he could get a steady diet of that sound. 

Hutch struck out swinging on a pitch that would have taken a golf club to hit, and sympathetic teammates blew teasing raspberries at the pitcher on his return to the dugout. Starsky clapped his hands and whistled his support. Offering him one of those prized smiles--a rare expression for a man who'd just had a flop at home plate--Hutch ruffled Starsky's hair on his way to the bench for his glove. 

"Why use your fingers, Hutch, take a comb to that mop, 'mano!" Taco teased. 

Laughter erupted in the dugout, and Starsky grinned. Finishing the painstaking task of adjusting his shin guards in preparation for the bottom of the seventh, he didn't know what to name the feeling welling inside him, but he wondered why it held a hint of intriguing danger.

~~~~~~~

"Well, Pat, this game has lacked offensive fireworks, with the Dodgers leading 1-0 in the bottom of the ninth, but it's been a defensive showcase, a true pitcher's duel. Right now Hutchinson is one out from a no-hitter, the first in his career. Again, I'm surprised by Captain Dobey's boldness, especially considering yesterday's finish. We've got Jimmy Spencer coming up to bat, and he looks prepped to hit left-handed."

"Actually, Bill, there aren't many managers who wouldn't give a young pitcher the chance to bag a pitching milestone like a no-hitter. If there were already a couple hits on the board for the Expos, I think preserving the win would take precedent, and you'd see Dobey bring in a left-handed reliever to face Spencer batting left. I think right now Dobey has confidence in Hutch to put this one to bed."

"I think he has confidence in the team of Starsky and Hutch, Pat. Minus several walks and an error on the part of Roger 'The Black Baron' Robinson at first base, we'd be looking at a perfect game right now. It's been one of the best-pitched outings in some time. And Spencer steps up to the plate. Part of Spencer's danger is his physique. He's built like a heavyweight boxer, and all that arm strength means that if he makes contact with a pitch, the ball's taking a long trip."

"He's also an intelligent hitter, Bill. He's good at picking up on the silent communication between a catcher and the man on the mound. It'll be interesting to see if Starsky and Hutch's unique rapport can fool him."

"After a quick nod, Hutch sets up and delivers. Spencer fouls that one down the third base line, just shy of fair territory." 

"Look for Hutch to go to the changeup next, Bill. To the batter's eye, it'll look like Hutch is coming out of the delivery throwing a ninety-plus mile-per-hour fastball, but the ball speed won't exceed seventy miles per hour in reality, so the batter's timing is thrown off and he fails to make contact." 

"Well, the changeup didn't fool Spencer, Pat. He's all over that one! Fortunately for us it's lifted high and safely into foul territory. On two foul balls, Spencer's down in the count 0-2 just like yesterday, and Starsky has yet to give a noticeable hand signal to call a pitch. I'm on the verge of pulling out binoculars to see if I can make out any hint of hand movement under Starsky's mitt. Considering very little of Starsky's face shows through the catcher's mask, and Hutch tends to stay expressionless on the mound, you're tempted to believe some form of telepathy is responsible for their pitch-agreement."

"From the way Starsky is setting up, I think we'll be looking at one of Hutch's junk pitches to clinch the out. Wait! Wait, Starsky is shifting."

"Dodger fans, it looks like Hutch somehow managed to convey discomfort with the called pitch without visibly shaking off the sign. Did you see him shake it off, Pat? I didn't catch a tilt of the head or headshake . . . or anything!"

"No, but this is equally hard to believe: Starsky is set up now for a fastball in the outside part of the strike zone. He's putting a lot of faith in Hutch's stuff this late in the game. If the ball runs out of gas, or if Hutch misses placement, Spencer's going to pound it into next week. When Jimmy bats left, he loves to pull low-and-inside pitches to the corners." 

"And here's the wind-up. Man! That ball's smoking, Pat! Dodger fans, we have a win! Spencer nearly came out of his shoes swinging, but the ball zipped right into Starsky's mitt."

"I'd clock that one at least ninety-five miles per hour, Bill." 

"Hutch is currently being surrounded by his overjoyed teammates, Starsky the first to reach the mound. The first no-hitter of Hutchinson's career, cemented by pitcher-catcher mind reading that should go down in the books. I've never seen anything quite like that, folks. In a recent interview with a sports columnist at the LA Times, Hutch referred to Starsky as 'the best friend a guy could have.' Perhaps that friendship has translated into their teamwork on the field."

~~~~~~~

Secure in the warmth of Starsky's arm around his shoulders, Hutch practically glided toward their hotel room. After a celebratory team dinner at one of Montreal's finest restaurants, most of the team members voted on a night out at a club. Hutch had complained convincingly of fatigue--something every ballplayer knows can be worse after a draining but successful outing than after some hard-lost games--and Starsky was known to want extra sleep the night before a flight, so the victorious pitcher and catcher were turning in early, long before team curfew.

Hutch knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep, though. He didn't intend for Starsky to have much in the way of snoozing, either. At least, not right away.

Months of wanting Starsky had tested Hutch's self-control to its outermost limit. He'd refused to give in to temptation; ignored every ready-when-you-are signal from Starsky. No more! No more denying himself or delaying the inevitable: Hutch had finally come to a decision, standing on the mound, of all places, that tiny hill of dirt Starsky had taught him to own, to defend. Ownership brought a sense of responsibility. Ownership during the last few innings of a potential no-hitter meant crushing pressure from the weight of expectations—his own, the entire team's, the fans', the sports media's, all pressing down on his shoulders. Then, watching Starsky adjust his squat behind the center of the plate, Hutch finally understood baseball's beautiful truth, to paraphrase Blaine. A pitcher with the right catcher didn't really stand alone: he had an ally in this battle, one person who could “shorten” the distance between the mound and home plate. All through the game he and Starsky had shared one mind on pitch selection, but in that final at-bat, when Hutch knew he still had the juice for one more fastball, any catcher in his right mind would have taken off the mask and headed straight to the mound to question Hutch's sanity. Not Starsky, no sir. Risking more than just Dobey-bluster if Spencer did the same thing to Hutch's pitch that he had to Desmond's, Starsky had just shifted into a new set-up without so much as a tilt of the head.

God, the trust involved! Hutch had felt humbled and all-powerful at the same time. 

Tonight, Hutch wanted to reward that trust. With all he had to give. 

The door closed behind them, Starsky already out of his restaurant-suitable jacket and toeing off his dress shoes, hobbling toward his bed and the latest science fiction novel to catch his fancy. Hutch touched him on the shoulder. Starsky paused with his left shoe half off and looked into his eyes. One question hung unasked but nearly audible in the room: How much experience swinging this way?

"Fooled around a little in college," Hutch said. 

"Fooled around a little in high school," Starsky answered. 

"Never kissed a guy, though."

"Never," Starsky echoed. 

Perhaps five seconds passed, each one seemingly longer than the last, then Hutch was in Starsky's arms and their mouths crushed together. 

Brute strength gave way to tender massage of lips, and Hutch began gasping incoherently into Starsky's mouth, wanting to tell him, to beg him, to demand what he needed. No kiss with a woman compared to this fiery consumption. Hutch couldn't concentrate on the pleasure of Starsky's hard groin pressing against his because Starsky's tongue was doing a fine job of remodeling his throat, digging for tonsils that hadn't survived childhood. Hutch tried to regain control of the kiss, but Starsky was firmly in command, and Hutch found he didn't care who had the steering wheel. One hand pressed to Starsky's cheek, one reaching for an impressive bulge in dark slacks, Hutch did try to maneuver them closer to the appropriate furniture. Starsky tripped on his partially removed shoe, and Hutch had to hold them upright for the shoe to be discarded. Equilibrium restored, Starsky pushed Hutch down on his bed, clawing at Hutch's zipper.

Squirming out of his sports coat and pushing it off the bed, Hutch laughed. He worked around the attack on his pants to unbutton Starsky's shirt for a peek at chest hair that enticed him more than it should. He wanted to caress Starsky's face, trace the mole under his eye, browse through the curls, but he knew the love touches would have to wait or he'd come before the party got started. Starsky looked equally crazed. He had Hutch's pants halfway down his legs but seemed uncertain how to proceed. Hutch realized then that Starsky was staring at his crotch. With an animal cry, Starsky dived to grind his face into Hutch's hardness. 

Hutch shouted. His brain whispered a warning about thin hotel walls, but he silently argued that the team was still out partying anyway. He closed his eyes, completely undone by Starsky mouthing his length through the underwear before pulling the cloth down. Snarling obscenities softened by affection, Hutch sprang and rolled Starsky over, nipping and kissing a random pattern across the silky-furred chest while his hands feverishly worked to remove the painted-on dress slacks. Damn it, Starsky could find a way to wear a gunnysack tight, and if he grew one tad harder, his cock would make removal a moot point by sawing through the cloth itself. Wriggling the rest of the way out of his own pants and underwear, Hutch had Starsky's pants and bikini briefs down to his knees before the wild man beneath him took action, scrambling back toward the headboard into a sitting position. Ignoring the clothes tangled around his knees, Starsky beckoned with both hands, urging Hutch forward, and opened his mouth. 

Their telepathy hadn't faded off the field. Hutch knew what Starsky wanted, and he instantly wanted it as well, more than anything in his life. Knee-walking to straddle Starsky, he guided his cock into the welcoming moist heat of Starsky's mouth and released a desire-pained cry that he felt in his toes. Starsky's hands had taken up residence on his ass, squeezing, pushing, and guiding the speed of Hutch's thrusts. Hutch could count a number of adventurous girlfriends and a couple of happily experimenting male pals before he married, and Van had been startlingly kinky under her polished exterior, but no one had sucked him like this man. It wasn't that Starsky was trying desperately to deep-throat him, or the force Starsky used in gripping his ass. The difference was the raw worship shining from Starsky's eyes. 

His cock urged him to stay put until he filled Starsky's throat, but he refused to make this a one-sided experience. Pulling free from Starsky's mouth and steeling himself against the groan of disappointment from his teammate, he slid down to rub his wet erection against Starsky's. Even senseless with lust, Starsky's brain matched Hutch's best fastball for speed. He grabbed both their cocks in his capable left hand and held fast while Hutch undulated, taking Starsky's face in both hands and kissing him until their mouths filled with shared orgasmic cries and their bellies grew slick. On the verge of passing out from the erotic overload, Hutch grabbed his discarded underwear and swiped at the trails of semen. Murmuring gratitude, Starsky closed his eyes and pulled Hutch to him in a cradling embrace that made Hutch feel both desired and protected.

When he woke, two hours later judging by the clock on the nightstand between the two beds, he found Starsky watching him. Hutch yawned then chuckled. "Fooled around in high school?"

Starsky smiled. "Yeah. Senior year. Buddy of mine and I tried a few simple things, and I had a fling with an older man."

Hutch had left the snug warmth of Starsky's arms to rid him of tangled clothing. He pulled the pants and briefs down Starsky's well-shaped legs, noting the musculature most common to catchers, hard-earned in the balancing act behind home plate, but Starsky's last two words distracted him. "Older man? You had a fling with an older man while you were still in school, you said? How old?"

Starsky's smile burst into full mischievous grin. "Sophomore at UCLA." 

Relieved, Hutch snorted at Starsky's comedic timing and tossed the pants and briefs over to the other bed. "Why no men since high school?"

"We-ell," Starsky yawned, too. "I got signed by the Dodgers during my senior year, and went straight from graduation into A-ball in their farm system. Too busy tryin' to make the grade then to fool around with either gender. Then, the quickest way not to get called up to the bigs is to get caught screwing around with a teammate on your AAA team, and guy-sex wasn't worth that risk. Once I got my chance at the big show, I saw a couple guys that tempted me, but none that I . . . " Again the endearing, lopsided grin softened his tough-guy face. "None I couldn't resist. 'Til you."

Hutch felt his face burn and recognized elation as the cause. 

"How 'bout you?" Starsky asked. "Why none since college?"

"I got married right after graduation. And . . . well, you're the first person I've had sex with since my marriage broke up."

"Since--" Starsky blinked at him. "You mean since the divorce, or--?"

"No. I mean since Van and I stopped sharing a bed, which goes back to last September."

"Good God! You've gone eleven months without sex? No wonder you were an uptight, ornery son-of-a-bitch."

Hutch leaned forward and gave Starsky a shove. "Thanks a lot, pal. I think you're a--" his words were silenced by Starsky's lips, and he couldn't fight the seductive tenderness in the kiss. 

"You were a hard ass when you showed up in Vero Beach, babe," Starsky said afterward, and Hutch immediately thought the four-letter endearment the most beautiful word in the English language. "Didn't mean you stayed that way. Y'know, I'm just now noticing that I was too horny before to get your shirt off."

Hutch looked down at his hopelessly wrinkled button-up and laughed. "You got the most important clothing off, so who cares?"

"I do. Wanna taste that butter-smooth chest I've been fantasizing about since I watched you undress your first day at Vero Beach." 

"I knew you were getting an eyeful that day," Hutch said, chuckling. 

Starsky took his sweet time on the buttons and inched the shirt off Hutch's shoulders, showing his enjoyment of the unveiling. "I knew you knew. First thing that gave me hope. I figured a man strong enough to pin me to the floor would've knocked my jaw off if he seriously objected."

Hutch took the shirt from Starsky and flung it behind him to the floor. "What was the second thing that gave you hope?"

Starsky's smile turned smug, and he slid both hands up Hutch's arms, leaving chills. "Our first night sharing a room on a road trip. Got back from that club and I hit the shower. Came out using my towel to dry my hair instead of covering my necessities. You were suddenly filling your jeans even better than usual. Figured it wasn't 'cause of the Reader's Digest you were pretending to read. Then there was the chat we had in St. Louis. Now let me at you, wanna taste."

And Starsky suited action to words with startling effect. Hutch squirmed under lips and tongue dancing across his chest. "Starsk! Hold o-on--oh! Oh, that tickles. Tickles, man, w-would you s-stop--oh, ha-ha-a-hah--Starsk! Starsky!" 

Starsky glanced up from his spot under Hutch's right armpit. "Yep?"

"I want . . ." Hutch drew away from his tempter and sat cross-legged on the rumpled bedspread. "First, while I'm clearheaded, we have to be more careful. We didn't even pull the spread back. Hell, I only got your pants down to your knees. Thankfully we coated each other instead of the covers, but still . . . you better believe housekeeping knows exactly who's in this group of rooms, and they wouldn't hesitate to talk."

"Okay, so we pull the spread back, put a towel down on the sheets, and mess up the other bed like it's been slept in. No big deal. Something bigger brewing in those eyes'a yours, Hutch. Spit it out."

"What you did for me today on the field, it blew me away. No one's ever believed in me that much. You were with me right down the line. I got hard I was so full of you. I want--want to show you, put the same kind of trust in you. Know what I mean?"

Starsky traced Hutch's lips with the tip of his ringed pinky finger. "Usually you only have to say a couple words and I'm with you, but right now, baby blue, you're using too many for my sex-fogged brain to keep up. Just say it outright."

"I want--no. Want doesn't cover it. I need you to fuck me." 

Starsky's mouth fell open with no sound tumbling out, such a rare occurrence that Hutch let him gape for a few seconds before he said, "Starsk?"

"You got--" Starsky cleared his throat and shook his head. "You got no idea how much I want that."

Hutch narrowed his eyes, searching his friend's demeanor for clues to explain the reluctance. "Why do I sense a 'but' the size of this bed coming on?"

Starsky's lips pursed, as if to hold speech back, but Hutch's concentrated stare forced him to release the tightly held words. "Hutch, I'm a catcher on the baseball diamond, but I don't do the catching in bed. It's just not something I do."

Hutch heard an alarm ring somewhere deep inside, a warning that he ignored. "So, who's asking you? Did I say I wanted you to turn over right afterward and return the favor?"

"No, but it's not right, me taking advantage of--"

"Of what? My selflessness, bravery, what? It's not like that. I want it badly enough to throw you down and sit on your dick right now. I'm not a straight guy making some noble sacrifice. I'm bi, and I have a good idea what I can handle. Would I offer my ass to any guy that turned me on? Hell, no. But I'm offering it to you. You're the first guy who's meant enough to me to make me want it."

"That's the most romantic speech I ever heard," Starsky said seriously.

Hutch smiled. "Why, thank you, and I didn't even rehearse it. Look, I'm cherry, so you'll have to work for it, but I don't have to pitch again for five days, counting travel, and I'm sure the soreness will fade long before then. Please, Starsk?"

"God." Starsky took his face in gentle hands and kissed his nose. "You don't have to beg, gorgeous." 

"Good." Hutch kicked the forgotten novel from the bed, yanked back the striped spread, and grabbed both pillows, slipping them underneath him so he could lay over them with his ass hiked in the air. He heard a choked sound behind him that boded well. 

"Not much for foreplay, huh?" Starsky whimpered, stroking a fingertip across Hutch's left rear cheek.   
"I've been known to get epic with foreplay, babe, but right now I want you up my ass." Hutch had to bite down on his fist to avoid screaming with frustrated need when he felt Starsky trail the bridge of his nose between his cheeks. 

"Ah shit, ah shit," Starsky groaned. 

Hutch knew his face had to be vivid red. "Shouldn't be--I--"

Starsky's naughty laughter sounded adolescent and adult at the same time. "No, dummy. I'm realizing I need--stuff. You know."

"Glove oil and my skin would not get along, so I suggest the hotel hospitality pack. In the bathroom." Hutch's face cooled from the flush of humiliation as he looked over his shoulder and watched the most awe-inspiring ass in the world on its way to their bathroom. Anticipation speeding his pulse, he listened as Starsky rummaged around on the mirrored dressing-counter. 

"Got everything in this thing," Starsky called. "Sewin' kit, shower cap, three kinds of lotion--and yes! Vaseline. We're in business now."

"Thank God," Hutch murmured, knowing he would have tried to talk Starsky into taking him with spit alone. 

In a few short minutes, Hutch discovered he loved Starsky kissing his lower back, but he didn't at all like the feel of fingers probing him. It felt clinical, detached from desire, however eloquent Starsky's intimate sounds. He lay silent through the stretching, his arousal fading despite the slight friction against the pillows, and hoped he would enjoy Starsky's cock more than the two fingers currently circling his virginal opening. When he was one short step from accommodating most of Starsky's fingers, he rolled over and reached to grip Starsky's cock at its curly base. 

"Beautiful," Hutch praised it, taking some of the Vaseline to grease Starsky up. "Cut, shaped, big. More than a mouthful, this one. I'm really going to feel you up in there. Dark--you want it bad as I do." He bent to kiss the fluid escaping the spongy tip. Starsky exhaled a sigh, dragging his non-greasy fingers through Hutch's hair. 

"You're ready for me," Starsky said with startling certainty. 

"Yes. Nervous as a prom night virgin, but ready." Hutch resumed his position, loving how he felt power thrumming through him, knowing he had stunned the brash Starsky with his request. 

Euphoria, anticipation, neither deadened the initial discomfort, but Starsky seemed to have his finger on the pulse of Hutch's nerves, because he slowed, paused, rubbed Hutch's back, inched forward, and generally exerted saintly control. 

"Not goin' all the way in," Starsky's whisper sounded forced through grit teeth.

"Don't hold back on my account," Hutch whispered, too.   
"Holding back 'cause I'll come if I don't . . . this is lethal, Hutch, could kill a man, I swear. Ohmgod, ohmgod, gonna start moving now."

Hutch's arousal returned in a flash with the first backward-forward movement. He watched sweat trickle down Starsky's right arm braced at his side, then he closed his eyes to enjoy the pressure and sexy babble from behind. The thrusts grew more assured, targeted, and Hutch felt flames of pleasure lick his balls from the inside. He understood what Starsky meant. This could kill a man. 

I could fall in love with him, Hutch thought, careful not to let the sentiment escape the safety of his mind. Starsky wouldn't want to hear it. This was guy-sex at its best, and he felt it was bonding them at the soul, but instinct warned him to keep his verbal enjoyment to guttural sounds, pleas and commands. 

More. Faster. Now. Come, damn you! 

Starsky's mind-blowing pace abruptly slowed, his forward momentum turning jerky and erratic, and Hutch heard a strangled cry that Starsky was trying to clench inside his mouth. He could barely tell otherwise that Starsky was coming inside him. He felt a little disappointment in that. He'd wanted to be burned by Starsky's fluid, filled to overflowing and irrevocably changed. Changed, he was, but it was inside his heart. 

I am in love. How long have I been in love with him? Should've known I was in trouble when I wanted to do this our first night. He didn't care that he hadn't managed climax. He squenched his eyes shut against the truth. Stupid, Hutch. Downright stupid. You can't expect him to--OH! Strangely, Starsky's slow withdrawal from his body triggered his own orgasm. Hips jerking, Hutch flowed over the pillow, relaxing in a boneless sprawl.

Coherent thought returned more swiftly than he anticipated. So much for being careful and putting down towels. He hurriedly pulled the top pillow free of its case before the fluid could seep through and stain. Starsky had toppled over onto his back, catching his breath. Hutch wadded up the soiled pillowcase and padded naked to his team duffle bag, stuffing the pillowslip inside among his dirty clothes. With luck, the maids would think one of them had a hotel pillowslip fetish. Professional baseball players had all kinds of quirks. One guy with the Twins had been known to swipe the room service menu from every hotel for luck. 

How many of them have quirks like this, Hutch wondered, already throbbing in his backside. He turned and dashed to the bathroom. 

He emerged to find the other bed mussed as planned, but Starsky lounged under the covers of the bed where they had consummated all their pent-in desire, and the look in his eyes invited closeness. Hutch couldn't refuse. He slid into bed on the other side and curled up in the curve of Starsky's arm. 

Starsky kissed his hair. "Most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me, with me, to me, any other word you can name. Um, I know I got kinda lost in it there at the end, didn't reach around to . . . uh . . . help you out."   
Hutch smiled, touched by his passionate bedmate's almost shy apology. "That's all right. As you could see, what you did was enough. Thanks, Starsk."

"You give me the world, then thank me. Incredible." Fingertip under Hutch's chin, Starsky tilted his teammate's head back for a lengthy kiss that burned whatever remained of Hutch's bridges. 

Hutch wanted to fall asleep on that note, but Starsky hugged him hard and said, "Hutch? Vanessa and the divorce didn't turn you off girl-sex, right? I mean you can still get it up for women? 'Cause I like girls, always will, and I don't want you missing out, neither. Besides which, bisexual's much easier on the digestion than gay, y'know?"

Hutch reminded himself that the first cut was the deepest. His heart was still beating, so the aorta must be intact. "No kidding. Of course I'm not giving up girls. Van turned me off the institution of marriage, that's all."

Starsky's blinding smile was worth the soulless pretense. "Tell you one thing, though. Won't ever look at another man again. I mean it." He rubbed Hutch's throat with warm fingers. "Hey, you hard-throwing boy, can I be the only man in your life?"

Well, that's something, Hutch told himself. He hadn't come in the room expecting any commitment. Hadn't known he could want one again. He lifted his chin for another kiss. "You'll be the only man in my life. Go to sleep, Starsk." 

I love you. 

~~~~~~~

Los Angeles / St. Paul, Offseason   
December 1975

"Willa Hutchinson residence."

"Huts-sch!" 

"Hey, buddy. Starsk? You sound drunk."

"Y'think? Had more'n a few, yeah. 'M home, so don't worry."

"What's going on? How's Emily?"

"Hu-sch, she's not blind n'more. Was some kinda reversible condition, 'parently. An eye virus. Guess what? You'd never b'lieve it, but when she got her sight back, I just lost...um...whatsit... Interest. 'Course, she also wanted to go to New York to art school but even so . . . ."

"Starsky, I'm sure it wasn't her sight returning that cooled the passion, man."

"'Must'a been. Nothin' else changed."

"You probably didn't have enough in common. She like baseball?"

"Hah! 'Bout as much as Laura and Sharman did."

"Laura Stevens didn't care about anything but her face in the mirror and the fashion editor of the LA Times. I know that much and I've only known her through what you've said in phone calls! Sharman needed help climbing out of a bottle. She didn't have time or energy to care about baseball. Or about you, for that matter. Not her fault. Just bad timing and circumstances."

"Thought that was the way to go, y'know. The ballplayer and the model. Cliché, right?"

"A little, yes. Dating two models back to back probably solidified your playboy reputation. What did the press make of Emily? Or did the press not get wind of her? Sharman, Laura, Emily. You've been busy this offseason."

"Glad Sharman's back with her folks, tellya that."

"It's because you recognized her addiction that she had the courage to get help. Don't knock yourself. You did good with her, Starsk."

"Yeah, yeah. Yer the Gal--Gala--knight guy in this parternship." 

"Galahad, buddy. Some words shouldn't be attempted under the influence. Like partnership. Now, why are you drunk off your ass?"

"How's it goin' with whatshername?"

"Gillian?"

"Yeah. She the one up there visiting her aunt?"

"Yeah, that's the one. It's over, pal. Finished."

"Why?"

"Don't sound so worried. She neglected to tell me she's married. I had to learn through her aunt that she's got a hubby and two kids in Cleveland. I told her she could go back to Cleveland, thank you very much, because I don't get off on the home-wrecker routine."

"Damn right! 'M sorry it didn't work out. You really liked her, huh?"

"Yes, I really liked her. I really liked what I believed her to be. There's a difference."

"Hutssch, why you gotta be in Minnesota the whole offseason?"   
"You know why. My grandmother's in poor health, and Kenneth and Laura Hutchinson do not believe in caring for the elderly in their own home. They'd be all too happy to shove her into some ritzy, sterile nursing home. During the season, I had a live-in nurse staying with her, but that's still too impersonal for my taste. I'm all she's got."

"I know it. I respect that. S'much. Yer 'mazing. Like I said, old-timey knight an' everythin'. King Arthur, himself. I just . . . drove by your apartment here the other day an' . . . to, y'know, water your plants an' all, and your ferns are lookin' lonely."

"I miss you, too, Starsky. You never answered me. Why are you plastered?"

"Findin' out I don't like a girl when she's not blind anymore ain't reason enough?"

"Come off it. You're not like that, and you know it. But it does take a damn good reason for you to tie one on. We have some occasionally heavy recreational drinkers on the team, but you're not one of them. You get your kicks out of life, not liquid."

"Right, know-it-all. Unh. Can't wait for Spring Training."

"You're a natural born ballplayer, of course you can't wait 'til Spring Training."

"Not 'cause a that . . . I . . . dammit, Hussch! Think there's somethin' I wanna say to ya, but I can't figure out what it is, 'xactly, or the right words, and e'en if I could, don't think I should, know? So 'm not. Gonna say anything, I mean. E'en if I knew what it was."

"Are you saying that's why you got drunk? Starsky, there's nothing you could say to me that you need to get smashed beforehand."

"Yer the besht friend I got in the whole world."

"I know. And you know how I know? Because I know who you're dating before the LA Times knows, and I'm all the way in St. Paul." 

"Stop, funny guy. When I laugh, the room spins."

"Then don't laugh. Starsky, you're my best friend, too. That's why you can tell me anything without chemical courage."

"No. . . got drunk 'cause I figgered--figured that I might figger--figure out what it was I wanted to say if I had like twenty beers in me."

"Twenty? You did not have twenty. Christ. Starsky, go sleep this off, okay? And don't dare lie on your back. Call me in the morning. Better yet, I'll start calling you about seven a.m. your time and roust you out of bed, you lush. It's not long until Florida."

"'Kay. Tell Granma Willa 'lo for me."   
"Sure I'll tell her 'lo. Be good, Starsk. Don't let Huggy and those party animals rope you into something I wouldn't do."

"Hmph! Might as well tell me t'spend the offseason in a lib'ary. Bye, Hussch."

"Bye, Starsk."

~~~~~~~  
"Huggy speaking."

"Huggy? It's Hutch."

"Hey, hey, hey. What do I owe the honor, Blond One?"

"Look, Starsky will curse me sideways for getting you involved, but--"

"Hutch, lay it on me. What's going down?"

"Well, it sounds like he's put away a case of beer on his lonesome."

"That doesn't sound like Starsky. Something wrong?"

"Nothing major. I think he would've told me, one way or the other."

"Fine, Hutch. I'll drop by like it's the most natural thing on earth. Starsky's used to me keeping weird hours. Don't even have to know you called me. I'll hang 'round and make sure he sleeps it off safe."

"Thanks, Huggy. I owe you."

"You owe me nothin', don't insult me suggesting otherwise. Give your grandmamma my best regards."

"Sure thing. Bye, Huggy."

"Catch you later." 

~~~~~~~

Dodgertown, Vero Beach, Florida   
February 1976

"Can I get an autograph?" Jackson Walters joked, waving the Sports Illustrated high above his head. "Come on, Starsky, Hutch. Sign my magazine, fellas."

Starsky took one look at Hutch and snickered. Hutch hadn't tanned enough yet to conceal his blushing; his fair-skinned face matched the red checks in the restaurant tablecloth. 

The 1976 Spring Training issue of Sports Illustrated featured two familiar faces on the cover. In their white, blue-trimmed home uniforms, Starsky and Hutch stood halfway between the plate and the mound in Dodger Stadium. Wearing his shin guards and chest padding, carrying his catcher's mask and mitt, Starsky leaned against Hutch, who had his arms folded over his chest, left hand in his glove and right hand fingering a ball in fastball position. Above their baseball caps, bright letters questioned, TELEPATHY? 

"Jackson, put that damn magazine down," Hutch ordered, failing to conceal a smile. 

The waitress arrived at their table and began taking orders. Coming to Starsky and Hutch, she received two orders for lasagna. Turkey gestured at her, calling her to his side. "Sweetheart, save yerself some trouble, and the dishwasher work, and just bring 'em one big ole platter to share. They're always eatin' off each other's anyway."

Paco "Taco" Ortega broke up in a fit of laughter, slapping the man beside him on the shoulder. 

Starsky flung a wadded napkin at Turkey. "I'm gonna start callin' you Chevy Chase again if you don't shut up."

"One plate," Huggy insisted, taking up for his roommate. 

The waitress looked to Starsky and Hutch for confirmation. Hutch shrugged, but Starsky said quickly, "Make sure you bring two glasses of soda."

"Yeah, like you two don't drink after each other, too," Turkey teased, grinning. "Am I right, y'all? Am I right or not?"

"You right, man." Huggy laughed as the waitress left to fill their orders. 

"My fellow gentlemen," the Black Baron intoned, his laughter softening the nobility in his voice, "I say they can share toothbrushes and jockstraps so long as they pair up for eighteen wins like last season. That's my take on the situation."

"Yeah, but even with Hutch's eighteen, and Desmond's seventeen, we still couldn't grab a playoff berth, and the rest of our pitchers ain't all to blame. Only thing wrong with having 162 games in a season is more games to lose. We got to get our bats off our shoulders, fellas. Give Hutch and the rest of our pitchers some offensive support."

"Now, Jackson, that's just plain pessimism, that's what that is," Turkey scolded good-naturedly. 

Jackson refused to drop the subject. "Yeah, well if we'd helped put a few more wins in Hutch's record, he'd probably have gotten the Cy Young. If I was him, I'd be kicking our asses from here to the practice field. We have two weeks until the first Spring Training exhibition game, and we need to climb out of our slumps."   
Hutch smiled. "Sorry, Jackson, but blaming the hitting doesn't wash. The days of perfect pitching went out with Walter Johnson and Dizzy Dean."

"How's that for humility out of the golden wonder?" Taco lifted his iced tea in salute. "Amigo, you got some cojones. Most pitchers blame the lineup even when they lose games 13-11."

"I taught him everything he knows about cojones," Starsky bragged. 

After a couple of seconds for both the words and their audacity to sink in, the whole table shook with masculine laughter. Hutch stared at Starsky in blatant shock. Starsky nudged him with an elbow, and the laughter around the table doubled in volume. 

~~~~~~~

"STARSKY! HUTCHINSON!"

The shout interrupted Hutch mid-delivery, and he threw the ball over Starsky's head, stumbling off the rubber pitcher's plate in the process. Starsky sprang to his feet straight out of the squat, quicker than any of his "beat the steal at second" moves, and shouted, "Hutch! You okay?"

Wincing, Hutch rubbed his right calf. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Dobey raced onto the field. Lifting his facemask, Starsky intercepted him, getting in the manager's face. "You out of your mind screaming at a pitcher in motion? He could've been out for the season, just like that! What kind of manager are you, f'chris'sakes!"

"Starsky!" Hutch called. "It's okay. I'm fine."

Dobey held Starsky off by the shoulders. "Son, you're absolutely right. Should have my head examined. But in my defense, I didn't have a view of the field when I shouted."

Starsky backed off, clearly still fuming but willing to forgive. Hutch tried walking around the mound, bending over and stretching. Dobey rushed up and put a hand on Hutch's waist, squatting down to feel his leg from thigh muscle to calf. "Need me to get Dr. Meredith out here?"

Hutch considered their team physician particularly adept at his profession, but he didn't need all the fuss for a wrong step on the mound. "No, that's all right. I'm fine, really."

"You wanna tell me why you were yelling for our blood?" Starsky demanded. 

Dobey rose and wagged a meaty fist at the catcher. "I just got back from that fancy restaurant you two recommended. How much did you pay my coaches not to tell me? Blaine, Eckworth, Ferguson, Reasoner . . . you must've put out some pretty cash to keep all their mouths shut."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance. Oh, shit, they telegraphed via lifted brows and twitching mouths. "Tell you what, Cap'n?" Starsky asked innocently.   
"That mountain oysters, Starsky," Dobey said in a slow growl, "are actually sheep's testicles. The private, reproductive part of a sheep that should never be seen, much less eaten! Can't be I was the only one ignorant of this fact, but none of my dining partners bothered to educate me in time. I had to find out from the waitress, who commented on my culinary bravery. You said mountain oysters were lamb."

"Well, Captain." Hutch tried not to laugh. "They're also called lamb fries, so I thought--"

"You thought you'd put one over on the captain!" Dobey blustered. "You two are dangerous, you know that? Just for that, you're both confined to quarters tonight. Forget curfew. Your curfew is sunset!"

"Aw, Captain," Starsky protested. "Today's Valentine's Day. Shouldn't we be able to find us some lovely female companionship on Hearts and Flowers Day?"

"Should've thought of that before you had me eating sheep balls," Dobey said, his broad smile likely for the cleverness of his revenge. He was still smiling as he left the field. 

Hutch waited for their manager to reach the dugout, then pounced on his sudden suspicion. "You set that up, didn't you? I thought we were just playing a joke on Dobey, but you knew he'd do that."

Starsky favored him with a heated grin. "Yep. Now no one will think it's strange when we stay in the condo together tonight while all the other bachelors are out partying."

"You wanted to spend Valentine's Day with me," Hutch clarified, feeling his heart expand to absorb the beautiful reality. 

Starsky's cheeks were suddenly rose-tinged. "Don't get all misty-eyed on me. I missed you in the offseason, okay?"

~~~~~~~

Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles   
April 1976 

"Dodger fans, it's the start of a brand new season. Opening day here at Dodger Stadium and we're filled to capacity. This is Bill Evans along with Pat Guiterez, and you're listening to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980. We've just had a rousing version of the National Anthem, and the Dodgers are taking position on the field. David Starsky and Ken Hutchinson have gotten wild applause while Hutch throws his warm-up pitches, and the sound crew has cranked out the opening strains of 'The Boys Are Back in Town.' Clearly this crowd expects Opening Day to go our way with those two in perfect synch."

"Well, Bill, the fans recognize the closeness and teamwork, and they know that translates into wins. What they might not know is exactly how that closeness impacts the mechanics of the game. Starsky is keenly aware of Hutch's rhythm and timing on the mound, and he's as familiar with his teammate's pitches as Hutch himself. That makes pitch selection smoother and allows Hutch to put his energy into perfect delivery and pitch placement. If Starsky called for a fastball across the back left three inches of the plate, I think Hutch could put it right in there. The interesting thing is that Hutchinson didn't come out of college a finesse pitcher. His calling card was a multi-pitch arsenal. In fact, he showed erratic control during his stint with the Twins. John Blaine, the Dodgers' veteran pitching coach, says that having a catcher so familiar with his strengths and weaknesses as a pitcher has allowed Hutch to focus on softening his touch. Now Hutch shows both finesse and variety; that's a tough combination to beat." 

~~~~~~~

Candlestick Park, San Francisco   
July 1976

Starsky didn't dare show his alarm when the ball landed in the dirt at his feet. The umpire called ball four, and fuzzy-haired, trash talking Simon Bates had a few choice things to say about Hutch's overrated pitching skills before he took his free stroll to first base. With the Giants' clean-up batter headed to the plate, Starsky had to ask himself some serious questions about pitch agreement and Hutch's sudden failure to execute. Something didn't add up, and Starsky was nobody's math genius, but he didn't like the look of these numbers.

Buzzy Boone stepped up to the plate, looking eager to add a couple of RBIs to his stats. 

Starsky waved for time and flipped his mask, headed for the mound. He stood right next to Hutch and held his mitt up to his face to keep anyone on the opposing team from reading lips. "Problem, babe? Am I calling the wrong stuff over there?"

Hutch lifted his glove to shield his mouth too. "No. You're fine. Damn. Two men on. Buzzy at bat. Starsk, I'm not sure I can get this guy. Should we pitch around him?"

"What, and pitch to Soldier Robertson with the bases loaded? No thank you. The man's an assassin with three on and one out. He could take Buzzy's spot at clean-up any day of the week. You can get Buzzy. You feeling okay? Your arm sore? How's your hand?"

"Starsky! I'm fine! What's the game plan? Buzzy eats them raw on the middle two-thirds of the plate, and I think my fast pitches have had it for the night. You thinking breaking pitch?"

"Yeah, go with a sinker and hug the corner. He hasn't been getting under pitches tonight, and I doubt he'll wrestle one of your low-and-outsiders. Get him to ground into a double play and we're out of this mess." Starsky smiled with his eyes. "Me and Thee, partner. We can do this. Sweep the Giants in their own park."

"It's only the sixth, Starsk. Long way to go."

"Not the way you pitch, hot stuff. Okay, I gotta get back to the plate."

With a wink, Starsky jogged back to take his position behind the plate. 

"Lover's quarrel, Starsky?" Boone teased.

Starsky snorted. "Nah. Hutch and me are fighting over your wife."

Instead of cussing him out, Boone lived up to his easygoing reputation and laughed. 

Starsky turned his attention to the mound and watched his pitcher in action. Hutch took a minute on his set-up, fingering the bill of his cap and the lettering on his chest in his pre-wind-up ritual, checking the runner at second over his shoulder for flight risk. His wind-up and delivery looked clean to Starsky, but the ball sailed to the right of the plate and threatened to roll to the backstop. Scrambling in the dirt, Starsky managed to throw his mitt over it before the runners on base had a chance to advance. 

From the dugout, Johnny Blaine came jogging to the mound. Lifting his mask, Starsky hurried to join him. Blaine spit in the dirt and offered a smile of encouragement, a sign to the base runners looking on that he wasn't worried. "Hutch. We need to settle you down, ace. Let me see your hand." 

Hutch frowned, avoided Starsky's eye, and thrust his pitching hand forward. Blaine gasped, and Starsky felt his knees weaken. Two knuckles on Hutch's right hand were swollen and purpling. 

"Hutchinson, I oughta--!" Knowing the mound was no place to shout at a pitcher, Starsky restricted his ass-chewing to a deadly glare. He'd deal with Hutch later. Right now he needed to make sure his pitcher--his best friend and . . . and more--was all right. 

"You're done for the night, ace," Blaine said. "I think this is just reaction setting in from the line drive you fielded bare-hand back in the fourth. But we'll get x-rays to make sure. The minute you started hurting, you should've let Starsky know."

"He shouldn't have fielded the damn line drive bare-hand," Starsky added. 

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Reflex, Starsk. Threw my hand up to keep from getting conked in the head with the ball." 

Starsky eyed him, communicating his low tolerance for bullshit. "Reflex, my ass. Next time throw your glove-hand up, dummy, or step out of the way and let the infielders deal with it. That's what they get paid for. Get him off the mound and into the clubhouse, Johnny. He'll tell me later why he's keeping secrets up here." 

~~~~~~~

Hutch sat on his bed, nursing his wrapped hand. He hated the silence. "Starsky, I'm sorry, okay. I know I should've fielded the line drive with my glove-hand, but I'm slower with my left hand, you know that. What more do you want?"   
"I wanna know why the hell you lied to me when I came up there the first time!" Starsky sat on his own bed, staring at pictures flickering on the dresser's TV. 

"I thought I could make it through the inning. Then if I couldn't make the seventh, fine."

"Why, dammit? Why's one inning worth your career? Dumb, Hutchinson, and you're not known for dumb. One inning won't hike your stats enough to make it worth the risk."

"Not my stats!" Hutch burst out, goaded into speaking the truth. "You were up to bat in the top of the seventh. You know Dobey sometimes yanks you when he puts relief in, sends Simmons up there to catch the reliever to give you a rest. I wanted you to get another at-bat in before I let him know I needed to come out."

"F'the love of--! Why?"

"You're on pace to beat your career homerun record this season, buddy. Every at-bat is important. Forty big ones wouldn't put you in Maris territory, but you'd be up there with Bench in the all-time slugging catcher group."

Starsky finally left his bed in favor of a perch on Hutch's. He crawled over him, straddling him, and braced his hands on the headboard on either side of Hutch's head. "You listen and listen good. My personal homerun record means shit to me compared to you staying on this team. You get dinged up beyond use, and Gunther'll drop you faster'n a fifty-year-old reliever. He's like that. I'll keep my numbers up without you sacrificing your career on the mound. Got that, or should I pound it into your beautiful head?"

"Kiss me?" Hutch asked, hoping the request would gentle the warrior staring into his eyes. Though only months younger than his roommate, Hutch sometimes felt all of ten years old in the face of Starsky's potent will. 

Starsky's face softened on cue as Hutch hoped. The hardness in his eyes turned to blue velvet, and the kiss that met Hutch's mouth was just as smooth and comforting. He ached from a need to tell Starsky in no uncertain terms what the affection meant in the scheme of his life, but he satisfied himself with expressing his feelings in the kiss. 

Knocking on their hotel room door startled both men. Starsky fled the bed, lunging onto his and grabbing his unfinished comic book, shouting, "Yeah! Entres!"

Huggy peeked in the room, then swayed inside, letting the door shut itself. Dressed in one of his disco outfits that mixed suede, leather, and satin in odd places, he stood out in marked contrast to the nice hotel's fancy but generic décor. He sat down on the edge of Hutch's bed. "How's our new undisputed ace?"

"Desmond would argue you down on that one, Huggy," Hutch said. 

Huggy smacked his lips in teasing disagreement. "Desmond's got one helluva sidearm fastball, and that southpaw advantage on the mound, and just maybe he's talented at origami considerin' those folded gum-wrappers he leaves round everywhere, but he don't have the heart of a ballplayer. You do. You're a warrior, man, staying in the game with knuckles like that. What's the damage report?" 

Hutch smiled, warmed by the praise and knowing Huggy didn't issue compliments every day to everyone. "I'm fine. Knuckles are bruised, not fractured. I'll miss one start."

"Two, Hutch," Starsky corrected. "You're on the 15-day DL, and Dobey can't take you off sooner. You know the rules."

"Hey, that's better than half the season, right, bro?" Huggy soothed, patting Hutch's ankle. 

"Why aren't you out astonishing San Francisco in that outfit?" Starsky teased, and Hutch was grateful to him for lightening the moment. 

"I was. Came back early. Wanted to bend your ears. Thought this would be a good time to catch the whole package together."

"Well, what's on your mind, Huggy?"

Huggy divided his quirky closed-mouth smile between Hutch's relaxed seat on one bed and Starsky's full-body sprawl on the other with his comic book. "You're good, I'll give you that. I had my doubts for a while. And I don't have doubts, mes amis. But last night you two got a little--er--loud. If you catch my drift."

Hutch would have bolted from the bed had Huggy not pressed down on his ankle. Starsky probably didn't look fazed to Huggy, but to Hutch's knowing eyes, the man showed signs of shock and dismay. 

"Now, you're lucky in this case. Your room backs up to the stairwell on one side, and me and Turkey on the other. And since we always seem to have rooms side by side, and I didn't hear you before now, I think you've kept it quiet enough in the past not to worry. I'm a light sleeper."

"And Turkey?" Starsky asked in a steel voice. 

"Turkey sleeps like the dead before the Second Coming, but if he heard, he wouldn't care. Honest."

"Wouldn't care?" Hutch had his doubts. "With his Bible-belt background?"

Huggy's smile vanished. "Didn't they teach you in college not to judge a book by its cover, Hutchinson? Just so's you know, Turkey's father, may he burn in hell until the end of time, was one of those religious hard-liners whose favorite form of worship was to beat the sin out of his kid. Now, some kids might've grown up to be abusive themselves, but Turkey went the other way. Gentle, loving guy don't judge anyone based on religion, creed, color, orientation, recreation, or nothing else. He takes the world as it comes and sees the best in all of it, despite what he went through as a young'un. He'd be happy for you. He's got a little woman back home in Georgia, name of Alice, and he won't talk about her around the guys--including you--'cause he's so afraid she's gonna up and not think him perfect one day, and then it'd break his heart to tell you she's left him. Calls her 'Sweet Alice.' Enough to make you cry, gents, the way he loves that woman. He sure wouldn't begrudge you what you guys have."

Hutch guessed that Turkey's insecurity with Alice probably stemmed from not feeling loved as a child. He exchanged the pop-psychology the next second for a vow to spend more time with the left fielder and let him know how important he was to the team. He could see in Starsky's face that his roommate had made himself the same promise. 

"I can see by your faces I got my point across. Here's my next point. Dobey wouldn't take it so lightly. He's on the conservative side of strait-laced; know what I mean? He's a good guy, wouldn't hurt no one, but he's got definite lines in the sand he believes shouldn't ever be crossed. Now, he might turn a blind eye 'cause he wants to win, and the GM might wink and nudge, too, but Gunther's a different cat. He's got some morality hang-up about ballplayers being the world's role models. Only, he's selective about the morals. He don't care what gets done in nightclubs after games 'less it hits the papers in a big way. He didn't even hand down slaps for the bar brawl back in '74. But two of his players shacking up together--oh, yeah, he'd throw down a fit over that one, and one or both of you might end up traded right the hell out of here."

"Oh, come on, Huggy. He'd be willing break up a winning combination? I could see it if we got injured and weren't any good to the team, but--"

"You don't know shit," Huggy interrupted Starsky with a rarely seen grimace. "I'm telling you, Gunther's a mean cat. One of the homo sapiens out for his own interest even when it goes against his own best interest, you dig? And he's so powerful the player's union won't lift a hand against him, but if that's not enough, he's got the Commissioner of Major League Baseball in his pocket. All I'm sayin' is be careful. Most of the guys think the two of you teamed up to create the heavens and earth, but there are a couple who'd love to stab you in the back. I think you know who they are. One bein' a playboy shortstop and the other a southpaw with a rival for the top spot on the pitching staff every year now."

"Thanks for the warning, Hug," Starsky said. 

"Consider it my good deed for the day. Now, if the back-stabbers did catch on and start whisperin' in the wrong ears, I'd know about it, trust me, and I'd get the rest of the guys to drown 'em out to the point they'd sound like twin axes grinding. But I'm not sure that would be enough. So watch yourselves. Lecture over. I'm gonna catch me some Zs." 

Hutch watched Huggy sway and weave in his unique rhythm to the door. Starsky was staring at his lap, looking like he'd eaten bad fish. Hutch decided the pain currently making him think twice about refusing Tylenol with codeine couldn't all be blamed on his bruised knuckles. 

~~~~~~~

Chicago, Halsted-at-Night Club  
August, 1976

Hutch took his drink and walked over to a dimly lit round table in the club's corner. "Mind if I join you?"

The young woman looked up and gave him an ironic smile. "Sure. Why not? I actually think you're sufficiently humble to believe I don't recognize you." 

He slid into the circular booth beside her. Her smoky voice warmed something cold inside him. Dark curly hair, strong features, and an air of independence combined to make her worth pursuit. "I can't go incognito, huh?"

"Nope, Ken 'Hutch' Hutchinson. You're brave showing up here. After pitching a shut-out in Wrigley this afternoon, you should be back at the team hotel where security can protect you from outraged Cubs fans."

Hutch laughed. "Baseball isn't exactly all-out war."

"It is in Chicago," she said. "Sox fans and Cubbies beat each other up all the time, and they're fellow Chicagoans! I'm Marianne Owens, by the way, and I won't ask you for an autograph. I don't dance either, so don't ask me."

"What do you like to do?"

She smiled. Again, the expression had several layers. "I sing. In this club, matter of fact. You're catching me on the other side of a set."

"Sorry I missed it. I would've loved to hear you."

"I'll just bet you would." She laughed, pulled a silver case from the purse at her side and extracted a cigarette, holding the case out to him. He shook his head, and she lit her smoke. "Where's your other half?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She stared at him with a no-nonsense lift to her eyebrows. "Oh, come on. The other half of that Sports Illustrated cover. I'm a sports fan, see. Catch as many games as I can with my brother. I'm one of the rabid Cubbies who'd like to see you eat mud right about now."

He smiled. "Starsky's over there." He pointed to the dance floor where his--where Starsky danced in seamless motion with a tall, tastefully dressed blonde. 

She nodded and blew a circle of smoke. "Interesting choice of dance partners, considering where you're sitting right now."

He swung round to stare at her. Did she mean--?   
"Even more interesting considering I'm waiting for--oh, there she is. Over here, Abby."

A stunning blonde woman with prim British features that matched her tweed dress, Abby slid into the booth on the other side of Marianne and received a hug and peck on the lips from the singer. "Got here quick as I could, but I missed your set, didn't I?" 

Marianne's face had changed dramatically. She was all soft eyes and happiness. "It's okay, hon. Look who's sharing my booth with me."

"Oh, my goodness, you're that pitcher!" Abby smiled beautifully, then took Marianne's cigarette from her fingers and crushed it in the table's ashtray. "Marianne, you know those aren't good for your voice." 

Marianne failed at looking annoyed, and winked at Hutch. He had yet to recover his breath, but he had to grin in the presence of romantic bliss. "Ken Hutchinson. Call me Hutch. Nice to meet you, Ms.--?"

"Crabtree. Abigail Crabtree. Call me Abby." She nudged Marianne and whispered, still within Hutch's earshot, "Did you remember your vitamins?"

Marianne rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Yes, for the love of God, woman. I've swallowed forty pills and three gallons of water today. I'm halfway between floating and stoned on minerals."

Hutch swallowed his sip of scotch wrong, laughing. He cleared his throat. "Vitamins?"

Abby smiled. "Yes, I'm attending a Spirituality and Sexuality through Diet seminar. I could give you a brochure, but you're only in Chicago for a few days, right?"

"Right. Back to LA on Monday. The seminar sounds interesting, though."

"Has its benefits," Marianne said wryly. "Except I'm starving."

"I thought you might be," Abby said, "so I brought you . . . where is it?" She dug in her sizable purse. 

Marianne leaned to the side and whispered behind her hand to Hutch, "What she doesn't know about the cheeseburger I had for lunch won't hurt her."

"Here!" Abby triumphantly produced an apple. Marianne accepted the fruit, wincing. 

"This," she told Hutch, wagging the apple like she'd love to hurl it across the room, "is how you know I'm in love."

The song ended and couples began dispersing from the dance floor. Hutch hoped like hell Starsky wouldn't--but no, the curly-haired dancing freak had spotted him and was towing his blonde by the hand in Hutch's direction. Starsky's face spoke volumes, a visual pat on Hutch's back for scoring a booth with two beautiful women. Little did he know!

"Hey, Hutch. I want you to meet the sweetest girl in all of Chi-cah-go. This is Rosey Malone. Rosey, this is Ken Hutchinson, best pitcher ever to pick up the rosin bag on a mound of dirt."

Hutch gave Rosey a gracious smile that took all his effort. He felt a feminine hand pat his knee in almost a motherly gesture of comfort, and he didn't dare look in Marianne's knowing eyes. "Nice to meet you, Rosey. My teammate's met his match in you when it comes to dancing."

She smiled, clinging to Starsky's hand with both of hers. "His rhythm is impeccable."

You don't know the half of it, sister. Then, a frightening thought occurred to him. By the look on Starsky's face, Hutch knew she probably would before long. As if on cue, Starsky leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "If I'm late for curfew, cover for me, buddy?"

Hutch felt another pat on his knee beneath the table. He nodded. "Sure. But I might be late myself. I'm having a great conversation with Marianne and Abby here."

Starsky shone a benevolent smile on both women at Hutch's booth, and dashed back toward the dance floor with Rosey in tow. Hutch hoped his sigh managed to slip beneath Marianne's keen hearing. He started to rise, but Marianne touched his arm. "You can stay. We were having a great conversation, weren't we, Abby?"

"Yes," Abby said and clearly not just to agree with her lover. "I could tell you more about the seminar, and Marianne's going to sing again in half an hour, right, love?"

Marianne nodded and took a healthy chomp out of her apple. 

Smiling, Hutch turned each farewell handshake the ladies offered him into a continental kiss on the back of the hand. "You're both lovely, in every sense of the word, and you don't need some third wheel horning in on your time together. I'm heading back to the hotel before I get mauled by those Cubs fans after my hide."

Marianne's smile and parting words would stick with him all the way back to the hotel. "Maybe someday there won't be a third wheel horning in on your fun."

~~~~~~~

Shortly before one a.m., Hutch gave up on the ridiculous late-night TV programming that only Starsky could enjoy and went into the bathroom to turn on the shower. Not for his own sake. He got the water on just in time before the knock sounded on the room door. He left the bathroom, pulling the door to just a cracked opening, and went to answer the curfew check. 

Johnny Blaine looked over Hutch's shoulder, scanning the room. "Where's Starsky?"

"He's here, coach. Grabbing a late night shower. Danced himself into one hell of a sweat, and I told him I'd make him sleep out in the hall unless he did some odor-control."

Blaine laughed. "I still say all that dancing is what helps him get off his haunches so quickly throwing runners out at second. I'd love to see him match up against Huggy, but it's not worth risking injury to either one of them just for kicks."

"They're both competitive enough to go for it, but they'd never get an okay from Dobey." Hutch stepped backward into the room to signal his desire for solitude. He enjoyed conversing with Blaine, but not when the coach would be expecting to see Starsky come out of the shower towel drying drenched curls. 

Blaine took the hint with a smile. "Well, good night, Hutch. Damn fine outing today."

"Thanks, Johnny."

~~~~~~~

Starsky crept down the hotel hallway and practiced stealth extracting the key from his pocket. He opened the door and slipped inside, breathing a sigh of relief. Breaking team curfew the night before a game risked fines and sometimes a seat on the bench for a couple of outings. The wall-mounted lamp between their beds lit the room in a soft glow. He walked over to Hutch's bed and sat down on the edge. Reaching to pet through the soft gold hair fanned across the pillow, he stopped, not believing what he saw with his own eyes. 

Hutch slept clutching a pillowcase almost like a security blanket. The bold gold-and-brown striped material was familiar. Starsky realized, stunned, that the pillowslip was the one Hutch pilfered from that hotel in Montreal after their first night as . . . after sleeping together. Hutch didn't strike Starsky as a person who would have owned a teddy bear in childhood so finding him fast asleep with a pillowcase tucked lovingly in arm threw Starsky for a loop. But then, baseball players were odd ducks. Starsky had his own thing for red socks and two pinky rings on his left hand. He wouldn't think of going to the plate without them, even though he had to wear the red socks under regulation white uniform cottons. If a stolen pillowcase brought Hutch luck, who was he to argue? 

"Hutch," he whispered. 

Hutch's eyelids fluttered. "Umphrh?" The blue eyes flew open, and Hutch attempted to shove the pillowcase under the pillow beneath his head. 

"It's just me, dope," Starsky teased. "Don't have to hide your contraband." But Hutch's brilliant blush told Starsky the sleepy man had known exactly from whom he was hiding the bed linen. 

"Time's it?"

"Going on two, sleepyhead." He stood and began shedding clothes. "You wanna make room in that bed for me?"

Hutch sat up straight in visible alarm. "No. You--not after . . . ."

Starsky frowned. "What? I didn't sleep with her, Hutch."

"Why not?"

Starsky left his sneakers on the floor but picked up his jeans and socks and draped them over the nearby suitcase caddy. "Damnedest thing. Her father walked in on us."

"After midnight?"

"Yeah, she shares an apartment with her dad, and he works the second shift security guard position at a downtown bank, so it takes him a while to get home. We were headed to third base on her couch, and in walks the old man. Jesus, Hutch, the man's one tough son-of-a-bitch. Not only does he act like his grown daughter has no right to be kissing a man in their living room, but he wants to know all about me, my intentions, my life history, and, boy, when old man Malone put my surname and Brooklyn neighborhood together and figured out I'm Jewish, he hit the ceiling. I wasn't hanging around to take the abuse, no sir. Nothing wrong with my genes, and I told the bigot so, in words suitable for Rosey's ears. Now scoot over, willya?"

"Starsky, I think--I think you should sleep in your bed tonight."

"Hutch? What's eating you? You strike out with both Marianne and Abby?"

"I didn't strike out, nosy. I chose to leave. Actually, I chose to leave two people in love to their own devices, if you must know."

Starsky couldn't believe his ears. "In love--you mean, they're--! I don't know much about lesbians, but I wouldn't have thought they were the type--and now that I'm making you look really angry, I'll shut up. Hey, if you smell Rosey's perfume on me, I'll shower. We don't have to do anything, I just wanna be with you."

"Fine!" Hutch snapped, sounding anything but fine. "Be my guest."

Starsky couldn't remember a less enthusiastic invitation to someone's bed. "If you really don't want me," he murmured. 

Hutch's eyes were wounded in their emotion, as if the mere suggestion cut him deep. "Get in here already." 

Deciding he'd better keep his briefs on, Starsky removed his shirt and climbed into bed beside Hutch. He tried to pull his bed-buddy into his arms, but Hutch remained bowstring tight along the line of his body. "Hutch, am I missing something here? If I've screwed up, least you can do is tell me how."

Hutch didn't look back at him. "I think we need a new ground rule. What you do in the offseason or when we're on home stretches is your own business. Screw half the women in LA, that's fine with me. It's not like I'm celibate away from you. But when we're on the road during the season . . . . Dance with the girls, Starsky, flirt to your heart's content with the sports groupies and the club chicks, but come back to the hotel with me. Don't sleep with women when we're on the road."

Starsky's chest tightened; he held Hutch tighter on instinct.

"I know you're probably gun-shy after Huggy preached caution to us, but I honestly doubt we'll get caught just because we follow curfew. We've made it this far without people catching on. Look how long it took Huggy, and he could pull double-duty for the CIA."

Starsky was drawn to the idea as much by Hutch's eager voice as the convincing argument. He pressed kisses underneath Hutch's hair at the base of his skull. "How long've you been wanting this, Hutch?"

"It didn't hit me hard until tonight. Coming back here without you after . . . ."

"After you saw those women in love," Starsky finished. "Right? You think we don't have what they have, babe? We got what they do." Silence from Hutch disturbed him. "Hey, new ground rule accepted, okay?"

Hutch rolled in his arms to face him and offered his mouth for a kiss. Relief washing over him, Starsky accepted the offering with delight, investing everything he had to give in the play of lips and tongues. Hutch's hand slipped into his briefs and came to rest on his ass in the gentle, non-demanding way that Starsky liked. He could enjoy the massaging without concern that Hutch was asking for more. 

"What's the deal with the pillowcase?" he asked suddenly, before things escalated beyond conversation. 

Hutch's hand froze its exploration of Starsky's ass. "It's--n-nothing."

"Nope. Don't buy that. You wouldn't be stuttering over nothing. I know you."

"I laundered it back then. It's not like I've been carrying it around with dried cum on it."

"Didn't think you were. How come I'm just now seeing it?"

"When we're sleeping together, I don't pull it out of my duffle. Look, it's just my version of a rabbit's foot, all right? Souvenir of the first time I got really lucky. No big deal."

"Ah, Hutch . . . " Starsky feigned a sneeze to have an excuse for moisture in his eyes. The thought that this golden man capable of intimidating every hitter in the league wanted to keep a memento of their first night together filled him with affection and protectiveness toward his partner beyond what he already had. He scooted down in the bed, heading for delights beneath the cover. "Gonna suck you brainless, you big blond beauty."

Hutch groaned and laughed at the same time. 

~~~~~~~

Los Angeles / St. Paul, Offseason   
January 1977

The phone rang, and Hutch hesitated answering. He had dreaded a particular kind of call from LA ever since November, when Starsky had met her. 

Her. A chill iced his spine.

He used her name when referring to her on the phone with Starsky, but he wouldn't think her name to himself. The threat was real enough without putting a name to it. From the way Starsky talked about the woman, she sounded fit for canonization. Actually, in Hutch's less charitable moments, he thought she sounded dull as dishwater, and he wondered how she could possibly have any chemistry with his larger-and-louder-than-life buddy, but he would undergo electric shock torture before he'd say that to Starsky. Instead he fought hard not to resent this syrupy-sounding creature he had never met, and treated the phone like a rattlesnake rattling and hissing and dangerous, fearing the call when Starsky would announce he had proposed to her.

The phone rang for the tenth time, and Hutch knew if he didn't answer, his grandmother might attempt to and cause herself injury leaving her rocking chair unassisted. Damn. He whispered a Please, No over the receiver, then lifted it. 

"Willa Hutchinson residence."

"H-Hu-utch?"

Something was wrong. Hutch heard it in the first quavering syllable. Starsky only turned his name into a polysyllabic word when something had gone seriously screwy, or in the heat of passion, and this was not the latter case. "Starsk, you all right?"

"It's Terry. She's gone."

Hutch dropped the receiver. He called himself a few poignantly despicable names, and retrieved the phone. "Gone? Buddy, you don't mean--"

"Died . . . about . . . an hour ago. From what we've heard, she was crossing the road to the school and this out of control car slammed into her. Some guy had apparently busted out of a psych facility, all messed up on anti-psychotic drugs, stole a car and . . . . She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her sister called me and I got to the hospital just in time to find out they'd lost her in the ER. Hutch . . . I . . . . "

"Starsky, listen to me. You stay put wherever you feel safest. Don't attempt to drive home. I'm getting on the first flight I can find if it's on the back of a carrier pigeon, and I'll be there in hours, I promise. You hear me? I'm coming."

"I hear ya, Hutch. Think I'm in shock, or something."

"That's why I don't want you behind the wheel of a car. If you can't stand being at the hospital, get someone to drive you home. Have someone--anyone!--stay with you until I get there. You hear me? What hospital, Starsk?" 

"Memorial." 

"All right. I'll look for you there first, then I'll come by your place if I don't find you at Memorial. Hang in there, Starsky. Love you, buddy."

"Love you, too, Hutch."

Hutch hung up the phone. First time the words had ever been exchanged, and there was nothing sexual or romantic about them. With no time or inclination to mourn that fact at present, he took the stairs three at a time and burst into his grandmother's warm, cozy sitting room where she sat wrapped in quilts in her favorite rocker by the fire. 

Hutch knelt at her side. "Gran?"

She looked up from snoozing over her book. "Um, yes, Ken?" 

"I have an emergency in LA. I need to leave this afternoon. I'm going to call Ms. Van Hempel to come stay with you, is that all right? I'm sorry to just up and run, but Starsky's girlfriend died a little while ago, and he sounds torn up."

She patted his hair, cradled his cheek in her frail, wrinkled palm. "Ken, Ms. Van Hempel will make me homemade coffeecake and her special cider, and we'll play Scrabble until all hours. I'll be fine. You go to your Starsky."

He took her hand from his cheek and kissed it. "Thanks, you're a treasure."

"Ken, when is he ever going to come and see me? He sends me lovely packages, but I would like to know him in person."

Hutch wished she hadn't asked. It was the worst time for a reminder of his weakness in that department, and he couldn't shrug off her innocent question or let her believe there had been a sin of omission on Starsky's part. "Gran, that's my fault. I haven't asked him to come. He would've already been here to visit if I had."

"Why haven't you invited him?"

"Because you always have to say what's on your mind, Gran, and I love that about you, but he's not ready to hear what you'd say."

"And what would I say, my boy?" Her kind blue eyes twinkled at him. 

"You'd tell him I'm in love with him."

"Yes, I probably would. Someone should tell him my Ken is pining for him."

Hutch patted the quilts approximately over her knee. "I'm not pining, Gran. It's not like that." He teased her lightly with a wink and smile. "I think pining went out in the Victorian era. Modern people don't pine. We develop complexes and fixations. Anyway, you don't pine for something you have."

"You do when you don't have it all to yourself like you need." She tweaked his nose and waved her hand weakly at the door. "Go make your arrangements, and give Starsky my sincerest sympathy for his loss. So young to face such tragedy."

"Starsky's no stranger to tragedy. He lost his dad when he was a kid." 

"Oh, dear! The poor boy. Well, if he doesn't come here, perhaps I will get well enough to see him in Los Angeles before my time comes. I'd be a revelation to him."

"Yes, you would be, Gran!" Hutch rose and hugged her tenderly, careful not to inflict pain with his embrace. 

~~~~~~~

Batting Cages, Dodgertown, Vero Beach  
March 1977

"Trying so hard to be a hitter, aren'cha? Timing's still off on the swing, buddy." Starsky watched Hutch swing through another fast pitch from the pitching machine and clucked his tongue. "Think you need some tutoring." He walked up to the would-be batter and fit his body along Hutch's back to match his stance, wrapping arms around him and holding Hutch's wrists in his hands. 

"Starsky."

"It's okay. We're all alone here. Everybody's at the field, and we'd hear anyone before they got close enough to see us. Now, anticipate the pitch, and remember, the bat's sweet spot is just a few inches from the barrel." 

He moved his body in perfect unison with Hutch's and they swung the bat together, connecting in a rifle shot of wood and leather. The ball arced high into the netting, and Starsky went hard from closeness to what he considered a more potent "sweet spot." He pressed closer and rubbed his hardness against the curve of ass he could delineate easily in the uniform's light material. 

"Starsky!" Hutch sounded shocked. 

"That's not my cup you're feeling, schweetheart. Haven't put it on yet. That's all me, feeling you. Let's have another one, loosen this stance a little more." He rubbed his thumbs along the heel of Hutch's palms around the bat handle and melded their bodies together into fluid motion. Again, they met the pitch on the power zone in the bat, sending the ball in a white blur toward the cage's high netting. 

In tune to Hutch's slightest trembling, a good indication of desire, Starsky thrust his erection up tighter against the ass in front of him, wishing their uniforms didn't interfere with contact. "Oh, yeah. Couple more pitches and I might cream myself here. Feels good. Been wanting you, gorgeous. Some reason you insist on staying in your room every night? We didn't need both rooms in the condo last year."

Hutch pulled away from him and shut off the pitching machine. His eyes were flashing astonishment. "Don't! I can understand why you want to look okay in front of the guys, but you don't have to put on an act for me!"

"Act?" Starsky held his hands to the side. "What act? That bat you're holding ain't the only wood in this cage, and you think I'm acting?"

"That's not what I meant!" Hutch said angrily. "It hasn't been that long since she--!" Hutch looked away from him. "You can't show your pain to the guys, fine, but don't hide it from me. Not like this. I'm reporting to the field."

Starsky had to catch his breath and remember how to move his legs before he could follow.

~~~~~~~

A typical Spring Training "party" at the Starsky and Hutch condo involved penny-ante gambling, snacks galore, and good beer. Whitelaw and Taco debated some current event controversy in the tiny kitchenette while Jackson, the Black Baron, Huggy, Turkey and the two hosts engaged in a poker game that threatened to run until dawn. The atmosphere was somewhat subdued, and Starsky knew why. He had deciphered Hutch's enigmatic remarks in the batting cage earlier that afternoon, and he didn't like the code's message that much. He just didn't know what to do about it. When Turkey tried out a lame but hopeful joke and Hutch glared him into silence, Starsky jumped up from the table, took Hutch by the arm and pulled him from his seat. 

"Back in a sec, fellas. Me and Hutch need a pitcher-catcher conference." 

Sufficiently amazed at Starsky's action, Hutch allowed himself to be towed like a recalcitrant child to the patio. Starsky shoved the sliding glass door closed and stood with his arms folded. "Y'know something? You're the only one in that room who doesn't realize I'm fine, I'm moving on." Hutch stared at him with utter lack of comprehension. He tried again. "I do miss her, you're right. She was a neat person, and I wish you could've known her."

"Starsky, you don't have to--"

"You need to know something, Hutch. Terry and I called it quits the day before she--died. It was mutual and friendly. She's the kinda lady needs a man to be home at least half the days in a year. She wanted kids of her own, much sooner than later. I wasn't ready for kids. We decided we needed to cut each other loose since we weren't looking for the same thing."

"You--you--" Hutch rubbed his mouth with an unsteady hand. With the guys just inside the patio doors, Starsky couldn't reach out and hold that hand like he wanted. 

"She hadn't even told her sister yet. Losing her like that, Hutch, the day after we . . . . It was a shock. Fact that we broke up doesn't make what happened to her less tragic. I'm gutted she didn't get a chance to meet Mr. Right and have those five or six kids with him. And right after it happened, part of me wondered, was she more upset about the break-up than I thought, was her mind wandering when she crossed the street? And if it was, could she have gotten out of the car's way, if it hadn't been?" 

Hutch looked tongue-tied and confused. 

Starsky sighed. "What I'm saying is, I was a mess for a while, and you being there, coming all that way, leaving your granma to be with me . . . that was a lifeline, Hutch. There's nobody on this earth like you. But you need to stop acting like I lost every single person I care about in one plane crash or something. It's not like that. Terry wouldn't want me acting like that."

"After she died, you decided not to tell me about the break up," Hutch said stiffly. 

"Not exactly; it wasn't some kind of conscious decision. Couple times I came close to saying something, but you've been acting so strange. I didn't realize until this afternoon at the cages that you might not be taking me at my word when I say I'm fine. And what does it matter? Like I said, it doesn't change what happened to her, or make it less horrible."

Hutch curled his hands into fists and pounded upward at thin air. "Why do you think I've been acting strange, as you put it? Because I thought losing the woman you were going to marry would take more than weeks to get over. Because I thought you were putting on some brave face for the guys, and I needed to help you keep it up as long as it helped you. What does it matter? You're a moron!" Hutch's shout attracted the attention of the guys in the condo. 

Starsky showed a grin to the guys and waved to let them know all was okay. Not that it really was. He turned his own confused frown on the outraged man in front of him. "Hutch, I don't understand! I never told you I was thinking about asking her to marry me. I hadn't gotten that far myself. That's one reason we decided to go our separate ways. I wasn't ready to make that kind of commitment."

"You never will be," Hutch said in an odd tone. "At twenty-seven, your career just getting hot, the whole world at your feet, why should you? And that's with a woman, so why the hell should--" Eyeing the sliding glass door, he made a choked noise behind a snap of teeth, and when his lips parted again, his voice had softened, "I'm going for a walk. Tell the guys whatever you want. When I come back, I'll be sane again, that's a promise."

Totally bewildered, Starsky watched his best friend stalk away into the Florida twilight. 

~~~~~~~

Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles   
June 1977

"Welcome to an absolutely gorgeous day at the ballpark, Dodger fans! You're tuned in to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980, and this is Bill Evans with Pat Guiterez, coming to you over the pounding strains of 'The Boys Are Back in Town.' That's right, Ken Hutchinson takes the mound today, and he and David Starsky are winding down warm-ups. Yesterday we witnessed an impressive outing by righty Terry Nash, and we're looking forward to a good showing by the Cy Young hopeful Hutchinson today. The St. Louis Cardinals are in town, and the veteran lefty from Las Vegas, Ted Cameron, will be taking the mound for the Redbirds."

"There's an added dimension to this game, Bill. Cameron is in the sunset of his career, while Hutch is a rising star. Not only that, but Cameron has long had difficulty with David Starsky, the switch-hitter who's as dangerous batting right-handed as he is swinging left. In the teams' last series, Starsky crushed a seemingly flawless pitch from Cameron, resulting in a Dodgers win."

"Starsky has been the nemesis of more than one pitcher on the St. Louis staff, Pat."

"That's right, Bill. When Tom Cole was traded to the Cardinals immediately before Spring Training in '75, the talented knuckleball pitcher silenced bats throughout the National League, but Starsky quickly recovered, developing an instinct for Cole's placement and timing. Since then, other NL hitters have found their rhythm with Cole, but none as effectively as Starsky."

"When asked in interviews about Starsky's success against his famous knuckleball, Cole will only say that Starsky 'has friends in the right places' and chooses not to elaborate, but a rivalry-like tension has developed between these two teams over the last couple of years, and it's always more visible with Ted Cameron on the mound." 

"Bill, that comes down to personalities. Unlike his teammate Cole, who stands up well to pressure, Cameron is known for not accepting any threat to his dominance in a game."

~~~~~~

Hutch patted Starsky's back. "Go get him, slugger." 

Starsky shot Hutch his endearingly arrogant, ride-the-wild-wind grin and bumped hips with him on his way out of the dugout to the on-deck circle. 

This time Hutch was too focused on Cameron to watch Starsky's sultry practice swings. He tried to gauge Cameron's mood as it related to Starsky. Was the old-timer feeling aggressive? Was he going to lay off? Hutch chewed on his lip. In the first inning, with Huggy and Peter on base, Starsky had jacked a Cameron curve ball into the right field upper deck for a three-run shot that continued his fabulous hitting streak against the Cardinals' ace. Now, in the third inning, Starsky faced a frustrated Cameron. 

Peter connected with a Cameron off-speed pitch and dropped it into shallow centerfield, reaching first base with time to spare. Strutting, nearly swaggering, but doing nothing outlandish to rile Cameron, Starsky reached his place in the batter's box and took a couple of swings to loosen his stance. The umpire signaled fair play, and Cameron gave his catcher a fierce stare. 

Whatever the catcher called for, Cameron shook off. His delivery blazed a pitch directly under Starsky's chin, high and way inside, and Starsky had to bend over backward to avoid a closer shave than he could give himself in a mirror. 

"HEY!" Hutch yelled. Hands grabbed him from behind, and he realized Huggy and Taco were trying to keep him from leaving the dugout. 

"He's just brushing him back, 'mano," Taco soothed. "Trying to get his control of the plate. Starsky can handle it. You get called for inciting, and you'll be tossed." 

"That's not a brushback!" Hutch argued. "That's a knockdown pitch."

Starsky nodded at the umpire to show his readiness for play to resume. Loosening his stance further, not giving an inch of plate back to Cameron, the slugger held his chin high and stood his ground. Cameron promptly zoomed one in the same vector his first pitch had taken. Starsky lost his footing dodging the pitch and sprawled on his ass. 

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Hutch blared, and it took the combined efforts of the Black Baron, Huggy, and Taco to keep him in the dugout. 

Starsky scrabbled to his feet and turned to wave at the dugout. He adjusted his helmet, tightened his batting glove, and took a more conservative stance at the plate. Hutch caught his breath and stepped back toward the bench. 

~~~~~~~

"Well, Dodger fans, fireworks made an appearance in the bottom of the third inning when Starsky took two close pitches as clear reprisal for his first-inning three-run blast. Now, we're in the top of the sixth, and Cameron is coming to the plate as a batsman for the first time since he nearly took Starsky's head off in the third. Can we expect more fireworks this inning, Pat?"

"I wouldn't be surprised, Bill. In the past when pitchers threw brushback pitches to Hutch's teammates, he's always managed to keep cool on the mound afterward, but this was a clear knockdown attempt. Hutch is known to come in on a batter to protect the plate, but he's never deliberately thrown at a batter the way Cameron did. Seeing how Hutch had to be restrained in the dugout during the third inning's clash of wills, I'm not sure he'll take this lightly."

"Yes, and Starsky is his catcher and best friend on the team. We'll see if he can maintain a cool head. Cameron steps up. He doesn't look concerned, Pat." 

"No, he's taking a stance right over the plate, eating a generous amount of the strike zone, especially for a pitcher who isn't known for a hot bat. I'd almost say he's daring Hutch."

"I think you might be right, Pat. Here comes the first pitch. Ouch! Hutch has just thrown a headhunting fastball neck-high and inches from Cameron. So much for a cool head."

"Bill, that's a clear signal to all the pitchers in the league that Hutch won't tolerate his teammates getting knocked down. Looked to me like Starsky had called for a harmless slider, but Hutch had a different agenda in mind. Uh-oh. Cameron's charging the mound, and he's just hurled his helmet and bat toward the mound ahead of him."

"He didn't get far, Pat! Starsky came out of the squat like a cat and has solidly decked Cameron. Would you look at that! Hutchinson has left the mound at a run to put himself between Starsky and Cameron. Not for long. Starsky just shoved Hutch out of the way to get at the opposing pitcher and is keeping Hutch behind him with his arm. I think they're each struggling to keep the other one from taking lumps. Here come both dugouts emptying. This is going to get ugly, Dodger fans. I think we're looking at multiple ejections after the dust settles from this one."

~~~~~~~

Hutch's apartment, Venice Place   
June 1977

Starsky tapped fingers on the bottom of the steering wheel to the pounding beat of The Raspberries' love anthem from '72. 

Please go all the way . . .   
It feels so right  
Being with you here tonight  
Please go all the way . . .   
Just hold me close   
Don't ever let me go.

More a rhythm man than lyrics enthusiast, he rarely felt strong influence from the words in a song, but the simple plea for sexual consummation struck a chord in him at that moment, as he sat parked in front of Hutch's apartment coming to terms with the irrevocable assault on his idea of manhood that he was about to allow. Allow, hell! He was about to go up there and demand it from Hutch as casually as ordering a hamburger from a roadside stand.

Funny, he didn't think of Hutch as less than a man for enjoying the receiving end. He hadn't awakened in the hotel in Montreal the morning after that first time and found an effeminate man sharing his bed. Hutch was a man in every good sense of the word, and every flawed sense, too. He was real. Hutch was soft at the right time, gritty when called for, and loyal beyond question. If Hutch could take him up the ass and still be the man willing to make a statement to the whole damn league on Starsky's behalf and take on the entire Cardinals dugout to protect him, then it was high time Starsky learned to turn over. 

Starsky killed the engine, silencing the song as well, and grabbed his keys. He slid a hand over the Torino's bonnet in passing. He and Hutch really were a matched set. Both pulling in professional athlete salaries but living in bachelor apartments and driving Fords instead of Formula-1 show cars. Not that the Torino lacked flash--especially upside Hutch's rust-bucket LTD. Oh, well, they'd be able to retire in Tahiti one day on all the money they were saving. Chuckling at the thought, he flung open Venice Place's carved outer door and started up the stairs in a hurry. He slowed halfway to Hutch's door realizing he should have called first. Hutch had made it plain that he took advantage of female companionship during the home stretches, and after a game like today's, he had probably needed to unwind as much as Starsky. 

Starsky honestly didn't know how he would handle finding some pretty lady with Hutch, in any state of undress. He carried the heavy thought up the rest of the stairs, and instead of locating Hutch's spare key and inviting himself in, he took the precaution of knocking. He heard footsteps immediately. That was a good sign. 

Hutch's expression on opening the door almost made Starsky laugh, though part of him disliked such surprise. It was true they rarely slept together on their stints in LA during the season, but still . . . . "Gonna let me in?"

Hutch stepped aside, gesturing theatrical permission to enter. Starsky rushed inside, kicked the door shut behind him with his foot, and reached for Hutch's face, gingerly stroking the skin beneath a blackening eye. 

Hutch didn't flinch. "It's nothing. How's your jaw?"

"Feeling better than Cameron's face." Starsky laughed. "How much shit are we in?"

Hutch gave an eloquent, don't-really-care shrug and headed toward the kitchen. "Probably get five-day suspensions all three of us. For Cameron and me, that means just one start lost. But for you . . . . Starsky, I appreciate what you did, but you should've let me handle it. Decking Cameron like that wasn't bright."

"What, bright? I should've let him throw stuff at you? Not while I'm breathing. After what you did for me?"

Hutch plucked two beers out of the fridge and tossed one to Starsky. "So I protected my batter, that's not the most uncommon thing in Major League baseball, Starsky."

Starsky didn't like the tone one bit, and the words even less. He set the beer can down on Hutch's Spartan wood table. "Any other pitcher, yeah, I might think the same thing. Not you, Hutch. I know what it cost your Puritanical sense of integrity to deliberately headhunt a batter. Sports world is never gonna see you as squeaky clean again. You'll get slashed in the press over this, more'n me, and more'n that asshole Cameron, even though he started it. Tell me Granma Willa doesn't read the sports pages."

"Ms. Van Hempel will probably read them to her." Hutch took a gulp of beer followed by a long breath. "I'll call her tomorrow. Starsk, why are you here? I thought you'd be--"

"In the arms of a leggy blond?" Starsky winked. "That's my plan. And I'm glad that other apartment over there is empty, 'cause we might get loud." He walked over to finger Hutch's chin and pull the shadowed face down for a lengthy kiss. Hutch responded to him as usual, accepting all Starsky had to give and returning even more. He applauded inwardly at Hutch's dazed stare following the interlude. 

Hutch set his beer down beside Starsky's and took him into those long, comforting arms, squeezing for all he was worth. "I needed you tonight," Hutch admitted. 

Not an easy thing for Hutch to say. Starsky chose that second to spring his plan on him. "I don't just need to get my rocks off. Yeah, I could've found a willing lady for that. I'm here 'cause I need you to make love to me." Hold on a second. Fuck me out of my mind, yeah, that's what I came here for. Make love to me? Where'd that come from? 

The large hands patting and rubbing his back abruptly stilled. "Are you suggesting--?"

Starsky was glad there was no comment on his choice of words. "Need you too, Hutch. Like you said once, I'm not making some noble sacrifice."

"Why, Starsky? Why now?"

"Gotta be a reason for everything? Hell, I don't know. Do we have to talk it to death? I want to be with you." 

In your apartment, in your bed, not between the sheets in some strange hotel. 

Hutch's frantic kiss poured gasoline on the fiery need Starsky had brought into the apartment. Trying to swallow as much of Hutch's tongue as possible, Starsky worked on hoisting the velour pullover, pulling free of the delicious mouth to allow the shirt's removal, and then he ducked his head to sink gentle teeth around Hutch's right nipple. On the road, they had to be careful about love bites, because locker room showers could make their teammates start doing dangerous math, but in LA who could say that an adventurous woman wasn't responsible for the marks on Hutch's revealing flesh? 

Hutch's small sounds approved the marking, and his hands attacking Starsky's jeans urged a frenzied disrobing. Nipping, bumping their heads with clumsy kisses, and wrestling with pesky clothing, they stumbled to the sleeping alcove and Hutch's brass bed. 

Starsky expected his instinct to rise up and push him from the bed on a beeline for the door. But Hutch taking the initiative was a sight to behold, and the systematic adoration of Starsky's body paralyzed him on the thin line between painful excitement and crushing emotion. He wanted to taste the fine, golden silk at Hutch's groin, and cover him from head to toe in passion marks that proclaimed Starsky's territory, but Hutch didn't give him a chance. The moment he had Starsky on his back in the middle of the bed, Hutch was going down on him with far too much precision for the state of mind Starsky knew they were both in. Starsky thought for the countless time that if ever a mouth had been divinely fashioned to suck cock, it was Hutch's. He thrashed and danced helplessly under the sway of wet suction and contented himself with stroking every inch of skin his hands could reach. 

He heard himself saying things he never dreamed he could say to another man. Lovey-dovey things he knew would make him blush later. Later. If he survived . . . .

Orgasm brought the possibility of death into sharp focus. Irrational in his euphoria, Starsky feared he might shatter the skylight with his scream. Somewhere, somewhen, something had turned the angelic Hutchinson into a demon. Damn, if throwing at a batter unleashed this, Starsky didn't care if Hutch got the reputation of being the new Drysdale. 

Catching sight of Hutch's blood-flushed, demanding cock brought Starsky back to reality with a jolt. He was supposed to accommodate that in a hole never before used for that purpose? Right. And pigs might be the new seagulls this season. He stalled by seizing Hutch's shoulders and yanking him down into a combination hug-kiss. 

"You can change your mind," Hutch whispered in his ear afterward. 

"Hell I could," Starsky said, grinning. "Grease me up and get yours, babe." Hutch's clear eyes were saying something that Starsky couldn't quite decipher, and he figured the blackness around the right one had little to do with clogging communication. "What?"

Hutch smiled. "I--this means so much to me."

"Same here," Starsky said, touching Hutch's lips with reverent fingertips. 

Hutch leaned over him to reach the nightstand, and Starsky couldn't resist the expanse of skin at his mercy. He wriggled all ten fingers then applied them. Hutch trembled and came close to shouting with laughter. 

"Stop! S-stop, you fool! O-o-h, God . . . tickles, quit, damn you!" Hutch succeeded in opening the drawer and thrust his hand in among the contents. "Hm. No Vaseline, don't keep KY on hand--we depend too much on those hotel hospitality packs--will massage oil do the trick?"

Starsky laughed. "Hutch, way I feel right now, salad dressing would do the trick. You sucked me beyond caring."

"Yeah, well, I still care." Hutch soaked his fingers with the oil. 

Starsky took enormous comfort in the simple declaration. He realized Hutch was watching him. "What's the delay?"

Hutch made a twirling motion with his dripping fingers. "You're not going to--"

"Nope. I wanna watch the show. Do me like this, hm?"

Hutch showed the same surprise from earlier at the door. "Wouldn't have thought you--"

"Why you think I like doing you on your back? Half the fun is watching your face. You think I'm passing that up now? Forget it." 

Starsky meant what he said. He got through the awkward mechanics of preparation--which felt just plain weird, regardless what any porn book might say to the contrary--by focusing on Hutch's every change in expression. The handsome features cycled through tender, intense, determined, struggling with impatience. Starsky noticed small things he had missed before: sweat-dampened blond tendrils curling just over Hutch's high forehead, delicate flaring of nostrils as Hutch breathed through pent-in desire. 

He came back to himself when Hutch's eyes settled on his, asking one final question. Starsky didn't respond in words. He spread his legs further and lifted them around Hutch's waist, sliding his calves down to make the position less cramped. He let his face go slack except for what he hoped was a convincing smile. 

In the first seconds of penetration, instinct came rushing back, urging him to put a stop to this insanity. It hurt. Sex wasn't supposed to hurt. He had done this to Hutch, how many times? What kind of damn friend was he?

Hutch stopped, hovering over him and holding still. "Too much?"

The harsh whisper threatened to break Starsky's heart. Hutch was trying so hard to hide how much he wanted this. And Starsky knew how good it felt on the giving end. Better to give than receive, indeed. He remembered Hutch rushing from the mound, fists curled and ready to tear Cameron to pieces. Sweet, brave, loyal, fierce Hutch. He smiled again.

"It's gonna hurt, you softy. Can't shove something that big in tight quarters and not have resistance."

"You're . . . " Hutch closed his eyes and breathed deeply, chest expanding and the play of muscle turning Starsky on. "You're overly endowed yourself, Starsk. That's why I'm sympathetic to what you're going through right now."

"That your way of saying it ain't always been easy?"

Hutch smiled, too. "Hasn't always been easy. But worth it."

Sounded to Starsky like Hutch was talking about more than intercourse. "I want it, Hutch. I've done you enough to know it gets good after while." He let loose a raunchy snicker. "You haven't exactly been faking your orgasms."

It got good, all right. 

When the pain subsided, and Hutch let instinct conquer caution, Starsky wondered when they had sprouted wings. They were flying. He didn't even feel the bed beneath him. He felt Hutch's cock, pushing him higher and higher into a burning sky, and he did his best to join the motion, knowing a twin-engine plane traveled farther. 

Hissing, grunting, occasionally groaning, Starsky couldn't manage verbal encouragement beyond that, but Hutch had different ways of using Starsky's name to express pleasure. High-pitched and short pants of Starsk accompanied powerful thrusts. Low and softly moaned Starsky merged with slow withdrawal. Loud and long shouts of Star-SKY filled Starsky's ears whenever Hutch stopped all the way in and let his balls rest against Starsky's ass. The rhythmic rattle-clunk of the brass rails impacting the wall behind the headboard added to their music. The combined sound was so sexy Starsky thought he could come just listening to it. 

Eyes closed in passion, Hutch felt around blindly for Starsky's cock, but Starsky pushed the fingers aside and took himself in hand, jerking to the glorious rhythm he didn't want disturbed. Hutch opened his eyes at once, watching him milking his cock, and seemed to reach a breaking point. Reddening face scrunched in what looked like more pain than pleasure, intent on Starsky's hand-job, Hutch gave a harsh cry from deep in his throat. 

"Gonna . . . oh, o-ohohohoh, Sta-arsk."

Watching Hutch thrust, freeze, then fling himself toward orgasm finished Starsky. Fisting his cock hard and fast, he gripped Hutch's shoulder with his free hand, arched his neck, and screamed louder than before. His mind did some screaming, too . . . .

I'm in love . . . I'm in love . . . I'm in love . . . .

The second orgasm had turned him into a puddle, but he fought sleep to watch Hutch withdraw, leave the bed, and return with a hand-towel that felt soothingly warm against his skin. He managed to open his arms, and sighed when Hutch came into them. He kissed him. 

"You definitely do Cy Young pitching in bed," he praised lightly. 

Hutch's snicker matched Starsky's for raunchiness. "You okay?"

"Let's just say, suspension notwithstanding, I'm glad tomorrow's an off day. It'd be hell squatting behind the plate for nine innings. Loved it, Hutch. Close those eyes now."

Long after Hutch's breathing settled into the pattern of sleep, Starsky lay awake. Well, he had said he wanted to make love. He hadn't expected to end up in love. It was okay to enjoy the fringe benefits of their friendship, and Hutch meant more to him than anybody, sure, and he'd even say he loved the guy, but falling in love? That was a sticky proposition. Starsky couldn't even laugh at his own witticism. Somehow, and he didn't know when or where, he had gotten the notion that bisexual meant a guy fooled around with men but fell in love with women. Obviously, that notion had a fatal flaw. 

Should've known I was in trouble when I wanted to be the only man in his life. Hell, should've run the other way when I realized I wanted to be on my back for him. You've gone and done it this time, Davey boy. 

Accustomed to leaping first, thinking later, and asking questions last, Starsky made an exception in this case. He needed to try the idea out, work it around some, before he could tell Hutch. This wasn't something to spring on a guy out of the blue. 

~~~~~~~

Shea Stadium, Flushing, New York  
September 1977

"Welcome back to Shea Stadium after a break from our sponsors on Dodgers Radio, KFWB 980. Pat, we can't emphasize enough how important this game is. The team has to pull out a win today in order to secure a playoff spot."

"Right, Bill. They're tied neck and neck with San Francisco in the NL West, and if they win today, they'll be one game up and advance to face Philadelphia in a bid for the NL pennant. Philly clinched the NL East yesterday against Pittsburgh."

"For those of you just now joining us, we're in the bottom of the fifth inning, and the Mets are ahead 3-2 thanks to a quirky ground-rule double off the bat of the versatile Puerto Rican infielder, Huey Chaco, that gave Julio Guiterez an easy trip home from third. Right now we've got MooMoo Caifano coming to the plate. "

"MooMoo's lost a lot of weight, Bill, at the insistence of his hitting coach, but he's still a sizeable specimen and his power hasn't suffered from the slim down. He's also one of those junk-pitch hitters that plague pitchers like Ken Hutchinson."

"I doubt Hutch will feel plagued today, Pat. He's been gliding through the last part of this season, and sports writers feel this is his year for the Cy Young. He looks good on the mound. Relaxed and really in command of the plate. As far as pitch agreement is concerned, I'm more convinced than ever that he and David Starsky share one brain during game-time. MooMoo's through taking a few practice cuts at the plate, and we're getting underway." 

"Starsky's set up for a straight-forward fastball, from the look of his placement behind the plate, Bill. Good call, because MooMoo tends to swing prematurely on fast pitches to compensate for a relatively slow swing--"

"Oh, NO! If you heard that crack of the bat, you know MooMoo put a substantial dent in the ball and it's a rocket line drive right down the middle--GOD! With little or no time to react, Hutch didn't get his glove up in time, and the ball caught him square in the chest. He collapsed almost on impact, and the ball is still in fair play, rolling into the infield after careening off Hutch. Starsky has just run past the ball, completely ignoring it on his way to the mound, where Hutch hasn't moved. Peter Whitelaw is running in to field, and Colby's rushing over to cover third. They have Chaco pinned between Huggy at second and Colby at third thanks to a brilliant cross-the-body throw from Whitelaw. Colby's tagged the runner for the out, but there's no chance for a play at first, and MooMoo has an infield base hit on a line drive shot that still has Hutchinson down for the count."

"Bill, this looks bad. I've seen pitchers grazed by line drives across the temple and not lose consciousness. I've seen pitchers catch line drives up against their glove-hand wrist or pitching hand and end up with broken bones. This ball has gotten Hutch in the chest at full velocity, and there's just no telling what damage we're dealing with here. Starsky has propped Hutch's head and shoulders in his lap and is patting the mound around him, trying to get some sort of reaction, but Hutch is unresponsive as far as I can tell. Here come Dobey and the trainer. The team physician is on his way, too." 

"Dodger fans, keep your fingers crossed. There's a crowd around the mound, including the second and third base umpires, and the home plate umpire has called 'Time.' We'll keep you posted as information becomes available."

~~~~~~~

Hutch's eyes opened, and Starsky breathed again. "I thought you were dead."

"Get the field ambulance over here," Dr. Meredith barked. "We've got blunt chest trauma."

"That's dangerous, right?" Starsky asked, squeezing Hutch's shoulders. 

Meredith didn't spare time to answer him. Dobey's hand came down on Starsky's shoulder. 

"I'm going out, Cap'n," Starsky said. "Going with him."

"Starsky, there's an out left in the inning. I need you to help Babcock settle in. He's coming in without a warm-up, and you know Simmons isn't used to catching a game this crucial."

"Captain," Huggy interrupted sharply. "You want two injured players? You keep Starsky in right now and that's what you'll have, 'cause his mind sure enough won't be on the game."

Dobey stroked his chin, and Starsky held his breath. He knew the captain never liked it when a player made a point that had escaped his own notice, but surely he could see this was no ordinary circumstance? Finally, the manager nodded and gestured for the home plate umpire to come closer. "Fine. I'll tell the ump we've got a double substitution."

~~~~~~~

Starsky waited in the ER chairs and called himself every dirty name in the book. Mooning, lost in the joy of Hutch looking so fresh and happy on the mound, he'd made a terrible mistake. He knew when MooMoo actually connected with an outside corner fastball it usually took the straightest line possible. Straight into Hutch. Goddammit! 

And how many times had he lectured Hutch about getting his glove-hand up to field line drives, knowing the man had a slower reaction time with his left hand! Well, Hutch had tried this time to get his glove-hand up--with disastrous results. Why'd you have to listen to me, Hutch? What do I know? I'm an asshole! Starsky pounded fists on the chair arms, then buried his head in his hands and cursed soundly. If Hutch had gotten his quicker right hand up, he might have caught part of the ball and ended up with a broken pitching hand, but he might not be dealing with--what had Dr. Meredith said to the paramedic? Pulmonary contusion? Something dangerous involving the lung, apparently. 

"David?" 

He lifted his head and straightened in the chair. "Ma. Got my note."

Nick held out the crumpled paper. "Yeah, you shoulda seen her turn two shades whiter when the stadium attendant handed it to her."

Ma sat down beside her worried son. "Could barely read your writing, Davey."

"Well, I wasn't thinking very clearly when I wrote it. Didn't have much time either."

"Is that why you asked me to get a pillowcase out of Hutch's duffle? I thought that was a bit . . . unusual."

Starsky's shrill chuckle sounded hysterical even to him. He took the pillowcase, folded it, and stuck it in the seat beside him. "Nah, that was for real. I got my reasons. Thanks for dropping by the hotel to get it."

She handed him the hotel room key he had wrapped inside the note. "How is he?"

"Dunno. Dr. Meredith's got some special medical power of attorney for all the players, so he's back there with him, but I just about got myself kicked outta here trying to get through their damn stonewalling. I'm out here until someone calls me."

Nick frowned. "What I don't unnerstand is why you're here. You're a ballplayer, dammit, and they need you out there, big brother. They got it covered with Hutch here."

"I asked Dobey to take me out. Can't be put back in after you're taken out of the game, even if I wanted to be, you know that."

"Jeez, what'll I tell the guys? We've bet a hefty chunk on you guys pulling this one through, and Simmons can't catch worth nothing compared to you. We're gonna lose a ton to some jerks this side'a town."

Starsky was out of the chair and gripping Nick by the shirt collar before his mother could intervene. "You shut your mouth, hear me! This is serious. Guy in the minors last year died from getting a ball in the chest, and he was in right field! The ball had a chance to slow before it got to him and it still put him six feet under. Hutch took it straight off the damn bat!"

"David! Let go of your brother this instant!"

Starsky ignored her. "And don't lemme hear again about you betting on baseball. I know the kinda guys you hang around with, and if you're gonna stay in that scene, that's your lookout, but don't you be putting money down on my games."

Nick pulled free of Starsky's hold. "Well, excuse me, it's not like I'm a ballplayer. If I'd been the one sent out to sunny LA where I could play all the time, maybe I'd be the playboy athlete. Baseball and football in high school, you musta been on some kinda field every minute of the day. I had to hold down a job in high school."

"Nicky, please!" Ma pleaded. "Now's not the time."

Starsky flinched at the look on his kid brother's face. Twenty-three and already soured from bitterness over what hadn't been handed to him. "I had to hold down a job, too."

"That gig at Uncle Al's garage? Gimme a break. He let you go every time you wanted for practice, games, whatever, long as it had to do with sports."

"'Cause he knew I was gonna make an honest living of it!" Starsky shouted. "Look at you! Betting on my games with hoodlums. Whatsamatter with you, coming here whining 'cause I'm not at the stadium when the best man I ever known is back there in a trauma room with the hell knocked outta his chest!"

"An' why you talk about him like that?" Nick demanded, growing angrier. "What kinda catcher don't even field a ball four feet from him just 'cause the pitcher got hit?"

"The kind," Starsky said in a low, deadly clear voice, "that loves Hutch much as I do."

"Love?" Nick scoffed. Then his eyes widened. 

Starsky stared him down. "You can take it any way you like."

He saw the ingrained Brooklyn street disgust spread over Nick's face, and Ma jumped to her feet, too. "David! You don't mean . . . ."

He could take the disgust from Nick; he didn't want to see it in his mother's eyes. He scratched his brow and squared his jaw. "Ma, maybe you and Nick better head on out."

Her face had changed, and her voice sounded like a stranger's, but the mother in her shone through one last time. "And leave you alone here?"

"I'll be fine. Soon as the game's over, most of the team will be flooding the hospital. You better get on out of here. The press will be swarming any minute."

For a small woman, Ma could intimidate when she wanted. She took Nick's arm in a no-nonsense grip and marched him toward the exit without looking back. Starsky knew that for the time being, and possibly the rest of his life, he was officially an orphan. 

And he knew that none of it mattered compared to whether Hutch lived or died.

~~~~~~~

Hutch hurt like all out shit, and breathing felt like more trouble than it was worth, but he exerted the effort to turn his head. He smiled on spotting the man at his bedside. 

"Starsk."

"Hey, lazybones," Starsky said, smiling fit to kill. "Thought you were gonna sleep all evening. Look, don't try to talk, okay? You're still in touchy shape. Gonna be fine, they said, but you need to just lay there and rest."

"You're here . . . so game over?"

"Game's over, yeah, but I came out when you did." At Hutch's wide-eyed stare, Starsky nodded. "Dobey cut me some slack. I couldn't have played worth a flip with you here like this."

"Starsky." 

"We won, champ. The guys are out in the lobby, but they want you to get some sleep before they barge in. Babcock came in to pitch middle relief, and from what I've heard, he did a bang-up job, then Manny closed for us. Simmons handled himself well. I'll have to watch it or he'll have my job. We're headed to the playoffs; can you believe it? I brought you something. Dobey won't stand for me not starting against Philly, and we'll be heading out tomorrow, but you got a longer reservation at this place, buddy-boy, so I thought . . . ." 

Had he been able, Hutch would have gasped at the pillowcase Starsky pulled from beside him on the visitor's chair. 

"You keep this close, and it'll be like I'm still here, right? Right. Here." Starsky reached over and tucked the pillowcase up against Hutch's side below the hospital blankets. 

"You . . . thanks . . . Starsk."

"Sure thing. Now, you gotta make me a promise. I don't want you leaving here without the phone numbers of at least four pretty nurses, all right? Next time we're in town we'll have hot dates."

Hutch didn't understand. Something ominous crackled in the air around them. Starsky's voice sounded choked and gravelly, and why was he talking about nurses and hot dates at a time like this, when he looked like that was the last thing he wanted to talk about? 

~~~~~~~

LA / St. Paul, Offseason   
November 1977

"Starsky."

"Hey, Starsk, where've you been all day? I've been calling since noon."

"Around. Huggy'n me caught a double bill at the Rivoli. What's up, Hutch?"

"I've met a doctor, and I think she loves me."

"Huh?"

"She's been with the same practice as Gran's doctor at St. Joseph's for a year, but I've just never run into her. Can you imagine that? This morning when I took Gran to her appointment, I bumped into this beautiful lady in the hall outside the exam rooms, and we struck up a conversation. Starsk, she's . . . well, amazing. Judith. Judith Kaufman. Nice name, isn't it? Sounds all professional and grown-up and--"

"Hutch. You're babbling." 

"Oh. Am I?"

"Yeah. So you going out with her?"

"I'm gonna try my luck and ask her. Starsk? You're kind of quiet, man. Everything okay?"

"Sure, Hutch."

"Buddy, I know you're still bummed about not making it to the Fall Classic. Philly just has a kick-ass lineup, and we had trouble with them during the season. I hated not being there. I wanted one more crack at them. I'm not saying my presence would have saved the pennant for us, but--"

"You were letting your lung heal. Docs wouldn't have let you out of the hospital if Gunther himself had demanded it. Hey, the season wasn't a total loss. So proud of your Cy Young, Hutch. Knew this was your year to take top NL pitching honors. Hell, your stats were better than the AL winner's, too! As for the Series, there'll be next season. You'll be on the mound again, that's what's important. I'm just glad you wanna be."

"Of course, I want to be! What the hell does that mean?"

"Means I've seen pitchers fold after a hit half that hard, and you know it. I figured you weren't the type to fold, but . . . I'm just saying I'm glad, is all."

"Starsk? You don't sound right. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"Nada. I'm peachy. About to give the Torino a good scrub-down."

"You and that car. True love if I ever saw it. Starsky, Gran's calling me so I better run. I'll let you know how it goes with the medical profession's answer to Miss Universe."

"Yeah, you knock her dead, tiger."

~~~~~~~

Los Angeles / St. Paul, Offseason  
December 1977

"Starsky."

"Hello, Mr. Starsky. This is Judith Kaufman. I'm calling about Hutch--"

"Hutch? What about--" 

"He's in the hospital with pneumonia."

"Pneumonia! How can he have pneumonia? Oh, God--does this have something to do with his injury end of last season?"

"The trauma to his lung no doubt weakened it, yes. The dangerous aspect of his condition is that it's viral. With viral pneumonia, little can be done but supportive therapy in hopes that his immune system will kick in and do the work. Hutch's parents are out of the country, and Willa is serving as next-of-kin. She thought you should be notified."

"I'll be on the next flight out."

"I'm relieved to hear that. Frankly, I think Willa could use support. I'm a new acquaintance, in a sense, but she thinks very highly of you."

"Never met her, but I feel I know her through Hutch. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Mr. Starsky. Call me before you board the plane, and let me know when to meet you at the airport."

~~~~~~~

"Granma Willa?"

The fragile creature in the wheelchair by Hutch's bed lifted her head in stages. Judith faded quietly from the background and out of the room, and Starsky walked over to kneel down at the elderly lady's side. 

"Starsky," the old lady said, relief showing in her face. 

"Yes, it's me. It's great to meet you, ma'am, but I'm sorry it had to be like this." Starsky let his eyes stray to the bed where Hutch lay unconscious--with a high fever, Judith had said--and hooked to IVs and oxygen. Starsky shuddered. 

Granma Willa's nearly translucent hand came to rest on his cheek. "He'll pull through now that you're here." Starsky swung his head around, stunned by her words. She smiled. "He loves you so very much."

Starsky bowed his head. "He's my best friend in the whole world."

"He loves you, Starsky."

He knew his cheeks were matching his red sweater, and he would have liked to blame it on the chilly Minnesota November, but he couldn't lie to himself in this room of quiet desperation. 

She looked at the room's open doorway and lowered her voice, "He's been trying to convince himself that Judith is his chance at happiness beyond the baseball diamond and road-trip hotel rooms." 

Starsky wondered who would help him re-hinge his jaw. 

Again, Granma Willa smiled. "Ken hasn't kept a secret from me since he was fifteen. Not because I've pried, mind you. He's just felt comfortable confiding in me. He was never able to confide in his parents. They're not kindred spirits to the soulful person Ken is. I've tried to be, and I know you are."

"Granma Willa--"

"Judith is a lovely girl, and very nice, but she can't make him happy. As much as I like her, I have my heart set on you. The man who eats peanut-butter-con-jelly burritos is the person I want for my Ken. Now, if you'll get Judith, she'll wheel me out and you can have some time alone with him. You'll probably find her at the coffee machine. She's been so good about staying on top of Hutch's condition and bullying his doctors that she's exhausted. Poor dear, she has her own patient load to worry about, but she spends every spare moment here."

Starsky located Dr. Kaufman right where Granma Willa predicted. She was standing half-asleep in front of the coffee machine with her hand lifted to the coin slot. He took her hand in his and finished pushing the coin inside. She rubbed her eyes with a fist and couldn't bite back a yawn. 

"Rough go of it, huh, kid?" he said softly as the cup plunked down in the holder and hot coffee whizzed into it. 

Kid, indeed. Based on her profession, this woman was at least a couple of years older than Hutch, but she looked child-like and vulnerable in her exhaustion. "I'm tired," she admitted, nodding. 

"Not knocking what you've done, and please don't take it that way, but I'm here now, so maybe you should catch some shut-eye. Granma Willa wants you to wheel her out of the room for a while."

She gave him a smile, but it was muted by sorrow. "I'm too exhausted to play territorial games with you, Mr. Starsky. I'd lose in any case. Believe me, I know what my role is now that you're here. Despite knowing where I rank in his life compared to you, I'm glad you are here. Hutch will need all the help he can get to pull through this." She brushed past him without bothering to lift the filled coffee cup.

~~~~~~~

Practice Field, Dodgertown, Vero Beach  
March 1978

Tossing pitches to Simmons in the bullpen, Hutch took good advantage of the break when the back-up catcher left to take a phone call. He leaned over the bullpen fence and watched Starsky working with their best closer on the field. Big Manny Birnbaum had a save record that would make Search-and-Rescue envious. Well into his thirties, Manny had the longevity to outlast pitchers five years his junior, and pitching on average just two innings per trip out of the bullpen, he didn't have to worry about his arm failing him the way all starters feared. 

Hutch enjoyed watching Starsky tease the gargantuan lefty about his penchant for dating strippers. Starsky's favorite joke was that when Manny retired from baseball, he'd probably open a strip joint. Manny would get all red and flustered, let loose a string of expletives, and throw the ball wild all over the place for a few minutes afterward, but he never denied the truth in Starsky's taunts. And, after Manny got the wildness out of his system, he'd settle down and nail every pitch in the strike zone. Starsky knew how to work his pitchers. He knew which ones to prod, which ones to tease . . . .

It was good to see Starsky teasing someone, because he hadn't teased Hutch lately. 

The growing distance from Starsky bothered the hell out of Hutch. Their first night together in the Florida condo on the dawn of Spring Training should have been a passionate, joyful time of coupling, but Starsky seemed to hold back in both emotion and intensity, and the sex felt like an exercise done by rote. Every night since had seen less fire in whichever bedroom they occupied. 

That night in June at Venice Place, Hutch had thought they were close to something really special. He had never expected Starsky to bottom, but Starsky had looked so into the lovemaking, so into him, so overwhelmed, and on subsequent road trips, Starsky seemed to pay less attention to the beautiful women who liked to flock around Major League players. 

Things had changed after that game at Shea Stadium. Starsky refused to discuss the line drive that could have been lethal. He would even get up and leave the room when one of their teammates mentioned the incident. Hutch was on the verge of having the same talk with him that Starsky had given him after Terry's death. It was time to put the past behind them. Hutch had fully recovered from both the injury and pneumonia; he was throwing well, and not feeling any fear of the mound or any batter in the league. Not with Starsky behind the plate. As long as they were together, he feared nothing. 

And if Starsky still needed women to feel complete, Hutch would play along. He liked women, too, even if he had given up on finding one that could fit into his life on a deep level. Judith had made him look twice, and he doubted he would find another one like her. Her decision in January to accept a job in Geriatric Medicine at Johns Hopkins had ended their brief relationship, but Hutch healed quickly from that cut. It wasn't as if he suffered in the current arrangement. Gran could say what she wanted about pining. He didn't feel used or relegated to a second-class citizen in Starsky's life.

At least, Hutch laughed to himself, he didn't have to worry about a girl taking his place on the pitcher's mound. 

Strange movement at home plate broke his reverie. 

Starsky doubled over, flipped his facemask and promptly got sick all over the ground. Hutch burst through the bullpen's swinging gate and sprinted across the field. He skidded to a halt and fell to his knees beside the retching catcher. Birnbaum looked more astonished by Hutch's arrival than Starsky's sudden illness. 

"Man, you're not even winded. Guess they really did patch up your lungs proper like." 

Hutch didn't respond to Manny's quip. "Starsk, what's going on?" He pulled Starsky to a resting position over his knee and squeezed him gently. "Easy, easy." 

Sweating, Starsky retched and shook in his hold. "My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since Aunt Rose sent me some of her special chicken soup."

Food poisoning? Half the team had gone out for a late-night dinner at a highly acclaimed multi-ethnic restaurant. Turkey had dared Starsky to eat some impossible-to-pronounce dish that contained God knows what, and Starsky rarely backed down from a challenge. That had been about twelve hours ago. Ptomaine food poisoning generally showed within eight to twelve hours. 

"Okay, buddy, let's get some of this heavy gear off you," Hutch said, trying to comfort with his voice and touch. He nodded at Manny, who dropped down to the ground to help with removing the leg guards while Hutch worked on the chest protector. "Sorry, Starsk, I know how much you love practice, but I think you're finished for the day, and you can forget the game."

Taco Ortega came running from the dugout. "What's wrong with Starsky, 'migo?"

"Smack Turkey for me, will you?" Hutch asked. "I think whatever he dared Starsky to eat last night doesn't want to stay put."

"Hu-utch," Starsky said weakly, gagging midway through the word, "you're my pal, Hutch. If I die, I want you to have my favorite bat and mitt. You know, like in the movies when a dying cowboy gives his pal his boots."

Hutch smiled at the quintessential Starsky whine. "You're not Gene Autry, and you're not dying. You'll wish you were dead, probably. If this is ptomaine, you're in for a hell of a ride, but I'll be there with you the whole way, okay?"

"Better you than me," Manny said sincerely, wincing at Starsky's new round of gastrointestinal eruption. 

"What now?" Dobey demanded, hurrying to the scene. 

"Starsky's sick, Cap'n. Looks like Simmons'll be taking on Atlanta in the exhibition game this afternoon. And you can take me off today's roster, too."

"The hell I can, Hutchinson! What makes you think you and Starsky are an inseparable pair? You're scheduled to pitch today, and you'll pitch to Simmons and like it."

By this time Simmons had joined the growing crowd around home plate. He looked overly alarmed. "Oh, come on, Captain. Have mercy on me. Keep Hutch in with him worried about Starsky, and he's liable to pitch somewhere around my head. You ever see what a ninety mile-per-hour fastball can do to a catcher's mask? If Hutch's arm was a gun, it'd be a .357 Magnum. I got a fiancée who doesn't want me coming home headless."

Dobey threw his hands in the air. "Fine. I'm just the manager. Nothing I say matters. Who the hell am I to give orders and write up a roster? Gunther's paying me to be a figurehead, after all." He stalked off muttering complaints about too much pitcher-catcher chemistry, and the remaining team members burst into laughter. All except Starsky, who leaned over Hutch's leg and threw up yet again.

~~~~~~~

Veterans Stadium, Philadelphia   
May 1978

"On behalf of Pat Guiterez, myself, and the Dodgers Radio crew, thank you for staying tuned to Dodgers Radio, KFWB 980. I'm Bill Evans, welcoming you back to Dodgers baseball. We're heading into the bottom of the fourth inning here in Veterans Stadium after an extended rain delay. The grounds crew finished their work in timely fashion, and the players have just been given the okay to take the field. Hutch is being allowed extra warm-up pitches due to the length of the delay. So far this season, Ken Hutchinson has demonstrated amazing resiliency, showing us yet again why he's capable of a 24-6 record multiple times in a career."

"Absolutely, Bill. In my career as a pitcher, I never took a direct hit, but I saw it happen to others, though not quite the severity of Hutchinson's, and frankly, those pitchers were never the same again. There's a certain reaction that sets in after being physically reminded just how vulnerable you are on that mound, but I haven't seen any sign of that in Hutch. He's been fearless up there. If he pitches like this throughout the season, he may be a repeat Cy Young winner."

"The player exhibiting a change in game personality is David Starsky. He's always been an intent catcher, Pat, but out there today he's focused to the point of surgical precision."

"Unfortunately, Bill, Starsky's demeanor behind the plate is a little too rigid, I think. One of Starsky's biggest advantages is the ability to really relax and have fun out there while getting the job done. But this season I'm seeing none of the fun and games. He's all business, and I'm wondering when that's going to wear thin."

"Do you think the change has to do with the narrow miss at reaching the World Series last year? Several prominent sports writers have said the Dodgers fell short despite near perfection. In addition to Hutchinson's Cy Young award, Paco Ortega ended the season with a batting title, Huggy Bear Brown captured the NL stolen base record, and Peter Whitelaw earned a Gold Glove for his work at third base. The players who weren't singled out for awards certainly didn't play below their potential. The pitching staff's average E.R.A. was a mind-blowing 2.15."

"I think the Dodgers' failure to secure the pennant might have something to do with Starsky's intensified focus, but I'm not sure that's the whole story, Bill, and I look for him to field questions from the sports press."

"Well, we're officially underway again now, with the Phillies' lanky right fielder coming to bat. Harry Martin is known for speed on the base paths, but he's a fierce right-handed pull-hitter, and most of his thirty homeruns in a season are left field shots. And Hutch's first pitch is a strike on the inside corner of the plate."

"Sinking fastball, Bill. Good set-up pitch."

"Hutch steps off the mound to snag the toss from Starsky. He's a quick set-up pitcher, not too elaborate with pre-pitch ritual. And Hutch's second pitch yields another called strike. Martin was caught looking on that one."

"Hutch's slider catches more than a few batters looking, Bill. I'd expect Starsky to call for a changeup on the outside corner to finish the at-bat. No, Starsky's set-up directly behind the plate. Not advisable, Bill, and I can understand why Hutch is pausing on the mound. Not exactly a shake-off, but I think he's questioning the pitch selection."

"Martin has been known to jump all over inside pitches. Why would Starsky shy away from the outside changeup?"

"Well, Bill, there is the risk that Martin could pull an outside pitch to straight-away center. If you remember, Hutch was struck by the line drive on a pulled outside corner pitch."

"Hutch is finally nodding agreement with Starsky's pitch choice, and his delivery looks solid. Whoa! This was our fear, Dodger fans. Martin has gotten under that inside pitch, and it's a long fly to left. Pat, that has some get-up on it."

"Sure does. Even with the wind coming in, I think that one has a chance to get out of here. Back, back, all the way to the warning track. J.D. Turquet is going up against the wall, glove outstretched, and yes! He manages to get his glove on it. Talk about robbing a homerun! Excellent, highlight reel catch by Turquet. Hutch is shaking his head on the mound. I think he's frustrated with himself for not shaking off Starsky's sign and going with the outside pitch."

"Pat, could it be that Starsky is the one gun-shy after Hutch's line drive nightmare?"

~~~~~~~

Starsky pounded on the bathroom door. "Come on, Hutch! Huggy's got a line on a place that's really rocking. He and Turkey are waiting down in the lobby."

"I'm surprised Turkey is up to anything 'rocking,'" Hutch called from behind the closed door. "After going up against the wall to rob Martin."

Please, Hutch, please don't lecture me about insisting on the inside pitch. Better for Turkey to stretch his muscles against the wall than you to get a line drive in the teeth. 

Starsky tried to sound cheerful. "Yeah, well Turkey's batting average is down, so he's making up for it in left field. He'll be sore, but he won't show it. Now will you come on! I'm ready to grab some pretty ladies, get down and boogie. You're naturally gorgeous, so what's the hold up?"

Hutch came out of the bathroom looking so delectable in gold-khaki slacks and powder blue shirt that Starsky salivated. Known jokingly by teammates as Hutch's "guitar-shirt," its material clung to Hutch's strong shoulders and shapely arms in a way guaranteed to earn feminine stares. Starsky felt a familiar throbbing in his loins. He could try throwing a wet blanket over his feelings, but his body didn't buy the bullshit for one second. 

He whistled and pretended to look down critically at his tight dark jeans and tighter, flared-sleeve royal blue disco shirt. "I think maybe I should change clothes. You're gonna be serious competition in that get-up."

"Game's over so now you're going back to being human?" Hutch asked pointedly. 

Starsky hoped he wasn't showing how close the hit came to its mark. "You know I like to unwind after a game. Now, come on. I can smell the perfume and hairspray from here."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Right. Hell on my allergies and murder on the environment.   
Starsk?"

Starsky read Hutch's worried mind with ease, and soothed him with a wink. "Don't worry, you hard-throwing boy. I remember our rule. Leave 'em on the dance floor. I'm coming back here with you tonight. Promise." 

The tension visibly melted from Hutch's shoulders, and he ran his hand through Starsky's hair, grinning. "All right, then. Let's go knock 'em dead. I'll even try out that new tango move you taught me--in front of the whole dugout, Starsky are you insane? Everyone was looking at us. Hell, I think the TV cameras caught it when you dipped me."

Starsky answered his grin with an even larger one. "So? Don't worry, Hutch, they've seen crazy stuff out of us all along, and so far Huggy's the only one who's caught the subtext."

"So we assume," murmured Hutch, following Starsky out of the hotel room. 

Both men paused in surprise just outside the door. Carrying his team duffle, and looking packed for flight, Peter Whitelaw was striding purposely toward the elevator. 

"Hey, Whitelaw, where you skipping off to?" Starsky asked. 

Peter stopped, and a long moment passed before he turned slowly around. His face was haggard, seemingly years older, and moisture rimmed his eyes. "I'm heading home."

"Why? We got a game tomorrow, Mr. Gold Glove."

"You do. I don't. Leotis Jones has been called up from AAA-ball in Vegas. He'll get here in time to take my place on the field tomorrow."

"Take your place!" Starsky looked Peter over for signs of the injury that precipitated this madness, and wondered why he didn't know the third baseman had gotten hurt. "For how long?"

Peter ran a vicious hand through his hair and left the usually neat style in a honey-brown tousle over his forehead. "This is goodbye, guys. Mr. Gunther made it abundantly clear that he won't stand for queers on the team. Either a third baseman or his pitching coach lover."

Starsky dropped his hotel room key. "You . . . Johnny . . . ."

"Johnny's been fired," Peter said. "Dobey talked Gunther into keeping him on for a few weeks so our exodus won't hit the press at the same time, but he couldn't save Johnny's job."

Starsky had to restrain a shout. "But Johnny Blaine's married!"

Hutch had yet to say a word. 

"Maggie knows about us." Peter sighed. "It's complicated, all right? But this has broken us. I've lost more than my job. At least Dobey has arranged it so the press won't put two and two together and ask unfortunate questions. I don't want Maggie hurt by publicity."

"I can't believe—! You got a batting average of .330 and won that Gold Glove hands down. And Johnny Blaine's the best pitching coach around, ain't he, Hutch? Gunther just let you both go?" Starsky felt cold creeping up his legs and settling around his heart. 

"Dodgers baseball is all about image, guys; the most image-conscious organization in the big leagues. Even the media circus in New York around the Yankees and Mets doesn't compare to the spotlight we live in." 

"I--Christ, I--don't . . . " Starsky gave up on speech. If Hutch couldn't even open his mouth, why should he try for eloquence under the circumstances? 

Peter's face showed hard-earned wisdom beyond his years. "That's the way of the world. Major League baseball isn't ready for a gay player, and I predict that twenty-five years from now, the League still won't be. If a player is even rumored to be gay he'll have to do some heavy damage control in the press to keep his career. I don't like that, but I'm a realist. What I can't handle is a creep like Gunther. He's a pestilence, plain and simple. Wanted to get rid of me and profit by it at the same time, the son-of-a-bitch. Tried to force a trade through, but I had my agent balk with a technicality in my contract. Gunther called me himself and said I had a choice: accept the trade or be sent down to AA-ball. I chose to quit. I won't give him the satisfaction of trading me or demoting me. Dobey will run interference with the press for the sake of the team. The captain's so embarrassed by the whole thing he'll probably have fifty new gray hairs, but I think he tried to save my job. Gunther has a style all his own, I'll say that. So you better watch yourselves."

Hutch was still catatonic. Starsky tried out a laugh. "Us? Why? We're not--"

"What? You're not what!" Peter's snarl sounded nothing like the quiet "Schoolteacher" they knew, and even his mustache vibrated with rage. "You're not faggots like Johnny and me? You know, you guys, you make me sick. You've been doing everything but fucking in the infield for the last few years, but most of the team would die of hysterical laughter if someone suggested you were banging each other behind closed doors. Damned sports media watched you cradle Hutch's head in your lap after he was hit by that line drive, and all the articles afterward praised the brotherhood in baseball, for Christ's sake. You two have the whole straight world hypnotized and deluded, and how you managed it, I don't know. Johnny and I were walking a tightrope, keeping to ourselves, not flaunting a thing, but one little slip and we're . . . " Peter finished the sentence with an eloquent one-arm shrug. "See you round, fellas."

"Peter, I'm sorry about this," Hutch said, proving that he hadn't truly swallowed his tongue as Starsky suspected. "You'll be picked up by another team in no time. A third baseman like you doesn't come around every day."

Peter's smile was hideous in its misery. "If you think baseball's what I care about right now, you don't know anything. I'm tired of the charade, the hiding. I won't drag Johnny into the public eye, but I'm coming out of the closet soon as all this dies down, and I'm going to work on something really important. Next time you see my name, I hope it's on the ballot for public office. Gay rights platform all the way. Feel free to jump on my bandwagon if you start taking pride in being who you really are."

~~~~~~~

Hutch sat alone in their hotel room and fumed. He knew Starsky's breach in protocol stemmed from Peter's astonishing news, but a logical explanation didn't ease the hurt when he watched Starsky leave the dance club with the pretty Philadelphia cop. Unable to say a word, and certainly more than ever unwilling to cause a public scene, Hutch had left soon after and returned to the hotel with lead in his gut. Huggy had also been falling all over the lovely Joan Meredith, Detective Second Class, so why couldn't Starsky just do the polite "my friend has been dying to dance with you" routine after the first couple of dances and call it a night? 

The door opened just five minutes shy of curfew, and Starsky walked in. Hutch didn't see his entrance; he knew Starsky's footsteps, his breathing, and his scent. His freshly showered scent. He swiveled to stare at his best friend. "Did you sleep with her?"

"Hutch, don't--"

"Did you have sex with her? Yes or no."

Starsky plopped down on the end of his bed and toed off his sneakers. "Yes."

"Why? To prove to yourself that Peter's wrong, that you're not really queer?"

"That's not fair!" Starsky growled. 

"Oho, not fair? What's not fair, buddy, friend, is your blatantly disregarding my one request the very same night you said you wouldn't. Promised you wouldn't. Promised, Starsky. You know how I feel about promises."

Starsky lowered his head. "I think we should cool it a while, Hutch."

Hutch pulled on his earlobe. "Did I just hear you say--? Cool it? Cool what? From where I'm sitting, we've already got ice, how much cooler do you want it?"

"Hutch, don't make this harder'n it already is."

"Hard? Hard!" Hutch shot off his bed, nearly tangling his own legs together in his hurry to get in Starsky's space, and glared down at him with the full force of his hurt anger. "Hard is wondering why you've been acting lately like I'm some kind of inconvenient distraction half the time. Hard is trying to figure out why you're some kind of machine on the field this season. You want to talk about hard? I thought after all that went down at the end of last season, we'd be all over each other soon as we had the chance to get together in Spring Training, but no! You've been good at flirting with me, but when it gets right down to it, you act like having me in your bed is a problem you don't need!"

Starsky sprang to his feet, pushing Hutch backward by virtue of close proximity. "We're goddamn ballplayers, Hutch! We're not on some fucking all-expense-paid, leisure trip of love around the fifty states! Where'd you think this was heading? Hm? Were you seeing a wedding cake in a county courthouse somewhere? Wouldn't happen even if society would allow it! It's time we concentrate on being ballplayers. Playing professional ball is all I've wanted to do since I was a kid. It's all I know. It's who I am!"

"You're trying to tell me this is about your career?" Hutch wanted to check Starsky's body for some sign of alien infestation. Starsky couldn't rip his heart out for the sake of baseball. Not the Starsky he loved. Not . . . .

Starsky dropped back down in a slump on the foot of the bed. "Not just my career. Yours too. And the other guys on the team. Don't they deserve to make it all the way? We've just lost one of the best infielders in the league and a pitching coach to boot. What would happen to the team if we got caught in some little slip like Peter and Johnny? I didn't half believe Huggy when he warned us last year, but I do now."

"So we cross that bridge when we come to it. Aren't we worth that?"

"We're just buddies that like getting it on together, Hutch. This--" Starsky looked away, and the line of his jaw had a fine but perceptible tremor. "This isn't Romeo and Juliet here. I'm not saying it's hands-off for good. We could relax in the offseason when the spotlight's not so bright."

"The offseason! Need I remind you I'm not even in LA during the offseason? And judging by how fast you scrammed out of Minnesota soon as I was out of the hospital, I'm guessing it's useless to invite you there." Hutch's head ached with a flash of suspicion. Kneeling in front of Starsky, gentling his voice, he asked, "Did Gran say something that bothered you, Starsk?"

Starsky stared at him blankly, answering the question without words. Then, he said, "No, 'course not. She's a special lady, Hutch. I'd be happy to come see you in St. Paul. It's just, during the season, I think we should get our priorities straight--er, I mean--"

"You've made it clear what you mean," Hutch said weakly. He honestly didn't know if he had the strength to stand, but he forced himself off his knees. "Fine. New ground rule accepted. I think I'll get some sleep now that I don't have to worry about covering for your ass with curfew."

"Curfew check hasn't even happened tonight, Hutch. I think with what's gone down, Dobey's too wiped out to care, for once. Actually, I asked Huggy before I left the club tonight if we could--um--switch roommates. D'you want to room with--"

"Switch roommates?" Hutch whirled from pulling down the covers on his bed. "Are you crazy? After what happened to Peter gets around the team, it'll look like an admission of guilt if we're suddenly sleeping in different rooms! You might as well call a press conference and tell them all about us both!"

"I can't help it, Hutch." Starsky's face hardened from eyes to chin, his strongest defense mechanism against strong emotion. "Look, Huggy and Turkey won't advertise the change. Odds are it'll be a while before the rest of the team figures out we're not roomies anymore, and when they do, they'll think we had some kinda dumb falling out."

"I'd say that's exactly what we've had," Hutch snapped, at the end of his patience. "Fine. I'll go knock next door and bunk with Turkey. God knows what excuse I'll give him. Huggy can come in here. Funny, I suddenly understand what Peter meant when he said baseball was the last thing on his mind." 

Hutch took his duffle and marched into the bathroom. He gathered his toiletry items, tossed them in, and shifted them around to make room for his clothes. At the bottom of the duffle rested his lucky pillowcase. He seized the bed linen, held it to his lips, closing his eyes. Then, uttering a curse that had Starsky all over it, he tossed the pillowcase in the bathroom wastebasket. Stomping back into the room, he yanked his clothes from the closet and crammed them into the duffle with no care for wrinkles. He paused in front of Starsky, who hadn't moved from his slump on the bed, and decided he wouldn't leave without one final protest. 

Grabbing Starsky's chin in ungentle fingers, he bent and crushed a kiss on that solemn mouth until Starsky moaned and parted his lips. Hutch drew back the second he felt a tongue reach for his. "Just so you know what you're giving up. Not that you've wanted much of it lately anyway." 

"Hutch, wait!"

Hutch stopped at the closed door, but didn't fully turn around, and Starsky met him there with stark eyes and a stranger's face, brushing his hands up into Hutch's hair to hold his head. Hutch dropped the duffle and brought his hands up to push Starsky away but grabbed fistfuls of shirt instead and let Starsky kiss him within an inch of desperation. Under other circumstances, Hutch would have been overjoyed by the sentiment in Starsky's tender lips and caressing tongue, but right then the cruelty seemed unforgivable. Starsky drew back, panting, slowly pulling his hands from Hutch's hair. 

Hutch knew he had to have murder on his face. He didn't care. Maybe he was a second-class citizen in Starsky's life. "You bastard. Kissing me like that when you've just told me where I rank in your life compared to the professional version of a child's backyard game. Didn't you even f-figure out how I feel about you? I used to think you were a free spirit. Told myself it wasn't fair to want to possess you. Truth is, you're just a bastard." 

He grabbed the duffle and opened the door before he lost the remainder of his strength. The door slamming shut triggered a pounding in his head that seemed oddly like pain radiating from his chest. He heard something hitting the door followed by an odd scrape and plunk. The sounds presented him with an image of Starsky backing against the door and sliding to the floor. An agonizing groan drifted into the hallway next. Hutch half-turned, lifting a hand to the fancy doorknob, but he dropped his arm to the side. 

What more was there to be said? 

~~~~~~~

Fulton County Stadium, Atlanta   
July 1978

"And I'm tellin' you, Kingston St. Jacques hits a curve ball like it's delivered to him on a plate the size of Jamaica!"

"Not my curve ball, he doesn't."

"Oh, right. The Cy Young winner has spoken. His curve ball's beyond hitting, his fastball rearranges the sound barrier, his--"

"I know my game, smart ass."

"Yeah, you're the college boy pitcher, read all those scouting reports. How many times have I gotten your ass out of the hot water trusting those scouting reports got you in, Hutchinson?"

"Sorry, Starsky, but I'm the brains in this duo, and you'll have to live with it. You're the not too inconsiderable brawn with the batting average to prove it."

"I'll stake my catcher's reputation on my brains any day of the week. I know how you pitch, how fast, what night your delivery is on, what night it's off, and there ain't no hiding behind that, buddy-boy. You go up there and pitch a curve ball to St. Jacques, and he'll park it outside the stadium in someone's windshield. This place ain't called the Launching Pad for no reason!"

"We'll just see about that, won't we?"

"Starsky!" Dobey roared from his seat on the bench beside Walter Healy, the new pitching coach. "You're on-deck! If you two have to fight, do it on your own time. I'm close to forcing you back into sharing a room!"

"Heaven forbid!" Hutch groaned, shoving past Starsky to get to the Gatorade cooler. 

"You weren't easy shakes either, your highness," Starsky tossed back, grabbing his weighted bat for practice swings and storming out of the dugout. He paused halfway to the on-deck circle. "And that mustache looks like some deformed caterpillar crawled over your lip and died there!"

"Yeah? Well, your head looks like a poodle gave birth on it, so we're even!"

"Haven't had any ladies complain," Starsky said jauntily. 

Hutch laughed nastily. "I might take that to mean something if you started dating one with an IQ high enough to form an opinion. Ballplayer groupies like Melinda Rogers would compliment your hair if you were bald!"

Starsky's anger showed in his inability to produce a snappy comeback. 

~~~~~~~

"Hutch?" 

Hutch rolled over in bed, blinking in the sudden glare of the between-bed lamp. Turkey left his bed and came to sit on the edge of Hutch's. "You were talking in your sleep, ole buddy. Cussin' somebody and the horse they rode in on. Somewhere there's a pair of ears fit to burn off."

"Get real." Hutch pawed at his eyes, and tried a laugh that ended in a hoarse croak. "Probably kicking myself for that fifth inning St. Jacques' four-bagger tonight. At least it was a solo homer and didn't cost us the game. Chalk up another save to Birnbaum."

"Hutch, you don't have to hide from me. I know how rough it's been on you since Starsky put the brakes on things."

Hutch pushed up to prop against the headboard. "Did Huggy tell you?"

"Naw. Huggy is more discreet than that. Besides, he knows I know."

"Figured it out when we switched rooms, huh?"

J.D. Turquet had a smile as sweet and slow as molasses. "Now, how you like that? I swear, a boy comes from south of the Mason Dixon line, and people up North and out West automatically think he dug his brain out of a turnip somewhere. Didn't take you changing rooms for me to figure it out. I don't think as slow as I talk."

"Sorry, Turkey, I didn't mean-- We were surprised when we learned Huggy knew."

"Now that's just plain dumb, what that is." Turkey laughed. "Huggy could've taught J. Edgar a few things or eight. Look, Hutch, you might not want unsolicited advice from a country hick, but I'm gonna toss it out there and you can keep it or trash it as you please. Give Starsky space. He'll come around. What you boys got is good old-fashioned, write-home-to-mama love."

"How you figure that is beyond me," Hutch said bitterly. 

Turkey scratched through his bed-rumpled hair. "Let me see. Mighta been how he ignored a ball four feet from him during regulation play to get to the mound where you were looking like a possum playing dead after that line drive caught you. Or mighta been you nursing him through the most godawful case of ptomaine poisoning I ever seen since corndogs at the county fair in Statesboro when I was a kid. Or mighta been macho sports writers who forget their wives' birthdays and buy 'em washing machines for anniversaries waxing poetic about the perfect union between pitcher and catcher, telepathy, and the beauty of male bonding. Right now those same writers are grieving like some Hollywood gossip columnists lament a celebrity divorce!"

"Turkey, how do you manage to stay so positive?"

Turkey yawned, but his face had a tinge of pink. "Ah. Huggy must have filled you in on the Chronicles of Young J.D. Well, truth is, I figure, if I can survive what I did and end up a big league ballplayer, with friends like you, Starsky, and that beanpole loudmouth, then the world can't be such a bad place, no matter what Pappy did to me. You just wait; you and Starsky will pull through this, too."

Hutch smiled. "Are you going to see Alice while we're here in Georgia?"

Turkey blushed a brilliant red. "I take it back. Huggy is not discreet. I'm going to see her tomorrow after the game. Fact, I'm gohn ask her the world's biggest yes-or-no question."

Hutch leaned over and clapped a hand on Turkey's t-shirt clad shoulder. "Good for you, pal. I'd bet way more than a thousand that she'll say yes."

~~~~~~~

Three Rivers Stadium, Pittsburgh   
September 1978 

"After a word from our sponsors, we're back on the air in Three Rivers Stadium where the Pirates are attempting to cut short LA's determined journey to the World Series. Philadelphia has already sown up the NL East for the second year in a row. A win tonight puts Los Angeles above Houston for the NL West honors, and they advance to the playoffs, taking on Philadelphia yet again for the NL pennant. I'm Bill Evans joined by Pat Guiterez, and you're listening to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980. It's a beautiful night for baseball, with a gentle wind blowing in, benefiting the pitchers. These pitchers really don't need any assistance from Mother Nature, though, Pat."

"No, Bill. Dobey knew his season could come down to this game, and he reserved his ace for the task. Hutchinson has slipped a little down the homestretch this season, but he still has the best record on the Dodgers' pitching staff. Jim Nedlow is the undisputed ace on the Pirates' squad, with a phenomenal E.R.A. of 1.95."

"Let's talk about Hutch's slip, as you put it. The big news across the country in all the major sports columns involves the deterioration of team chemistry between the ace righty and his catcher. Why are Starsky and Hutch at odds, Pat? Were we naïve to think such teamwork could last in a game known for egos and personality conflicts? Is this a conscious change or something that has evolved?"

"I think we'd all like the answers to those questions. Teammates are silent on the subject, and Captain Dobey refuses to comment in interviews. The men themselves are avoiding interviews right and left, and the general consensus is that they're tired of the distraction all the questions cause."

"The distraction certainly hasn't kept them from getting the job done."

"No, it hasn't, Bill, but their strategy has changed somewhat. With more runners on base thanks to fewer strikeouts and more walks from Hutchinson, Starsky has had to step up his fielding performance. We've had a chance to see his excellent throwing arm. He's become so adept at cutting off the steal at second that Hutch rarely has to pitch 'out of the stretch' to hold runners on first. Starsky's also had a few incredible catches in foul territory to generate outs. I see him as the solid candidate for Gold Glove in the catcher's position this year, Bill. Unfortunately, slipping to a 19-10 record after last year's 24-6, Hutchinson won't be a contender for the NL Cy Young Award two years in a row."

"Well, we're starting the bottom of the eighth right now, locked at two runs a piece, and the Dodgers are taking the field defensively. Hutch has finished throwing warm-ups from the mound, and the Pirates' hard-nosed third baseman, John Brown Harris, is up to bat. Harris is an interesting story, Pat."

"Yes he is, Bill. Harris came to baseball through the backdoor, working the Merchant Marines before he joined a semi-pro league and was picked up by Pittsburgh scouts, and he's got impressive tattooing on his arms to show for his seafaring days. He's known for projecting a menacing attitude at the plate, and a lot of pitchers under-throw him, but Hutch is a different animal. He hasn't thrown at another batter since the infamous brawl with the Cardinals last season, but he's still a competitive, aggressive pitcher. He won't give John Brown Harris an inch of the plate, and if Starsky follows his pattern this season and tries to get Hutch to pitch conservatively, I think we'll see Hutch shaking off more of his signs."

~~~~~~~

Huggy came out of the bathroom and flung himself down on his bed, rolling and coming to rest on his back with his head cradled in folded arms. "Curly, you and me need to have a talk. A conversation among equals bent on mutual edification and--"

"Huggy, I'm trying to watch a movie here."

"Yeah, you seen that movie ten times already. I know 'cause you've seen it at least eight times with moi. Now, turn off the tube before I break off the channel knob and shove it somewhere ordinarily reserved for that horribly misnamed stuff you call food."

"If Manny opens a strip-joint after baseball, you're gonna be the restaurant-and-bar down the street," Starsky joked, but the words hung in the air and generated no laughter from the other man. He flipped the switch on the TV. Looking over, he folded his arms over his chest. "All right, what's on your mind?"

"I want you to tell me in words I can understand--meaning none of your clever hedging and double-talk--why you're doing to this to yourself and Hutch. Is it 'cause of what I told you last season?"

Starsky glared at his friend. Huggy knew this was a forbidden topic. Dressed in a paradoxically garish but elegant bathrobe, Huggy looked unconcerned with No Trespassing signs. Starsky decided concession might end the conversation quicker than stonewalling. "Yeah, mostly. If Peter and Johnny could get caught in some little slip, when I had no clue about either one of 'em, then I figure we were cruising for disaster."

"Little slip? Is that what Peter told you?" Huggy made a rumbling sound in his throat that meant he was about to divulge info he had planned to keep to himself. "That's not exactly the full story, m'man. Happened in Montreal, couple weeks before our stretch in Philly. Peter went in to Desmond's room to borrow some of his special oil for gloves, and found Blaine, Colby, and Desmond engaged in a few knee-slappers at the expense of gays."

"Trashing gays? Blaine?"

"For cover, I'm guessin'. Johnny had gone to their room to talk to Desmond about the next day's start. Got invited for a drink and Colby and Desmond started in on one of their anti-gay kicks. Blaine probably figured he had to join in or risk pointed questions. Peter walked in on it, lost his head, and went over and planted one on Blaine right in front of both of the jerks."

"Holy friggin' shit!"

Huggy nodded. A Huggy nod could mean many things. This one agreed with Starsky's astonished oath. "Now, don't get the picture I'm sayin' Peter's to blame. What he did was admittedly not the brightest thing since Edison invented the light bulb, but I can see where he was coming from. Man, if I was in love and having to hide it, treat it like something dirty that had to be kept from the world's eyes, and then I find my lover engaged in the ultimate hypocrisy, I mighta done the same thing."

"Have to admit, I wouldn't've wanted to be in his shoes."

"Right. Well, Blaine tried to play it off as a joke to save face, but Colby and Desmond were not amused. Thing is, Colby is Gunther's son-in-law's nephew, and if you think that's not a close relation, you're mistaken. Colby has the Big Man's ear, and he went straight to it with a mouthful of dirt. The ball got rolling, and Peter and Blaine got the ax-call in Philly."

Anger rose within Starsky and lashed out at his friend. "Why the hell didn't you tell me this that night at the club? You know everything, but you only share what suits you. Thanks a lot, pal."

Huggy peered at him in that all-knowing way. "I told you not to get het up about it, 'cause you and Hutch weren't in the same kind of danger. Told you switching roomies was extreme. Plus, I didn't feel it was my story to bat around. You noticed how nobody's doing much talking? I think Dobey put the fear of managerial wrath into both Desmond and Colby. Colby's smart enough to know a manager can make his life hell, regardless who he knows in the owner's box. Now, shall we dispense with the smoke screen shit and get down to the real reason you're causing the formerly svelte, short-haired blond to put on a few pounds and grow extraneous hair?"

The boiling anger flowed into different channels, rushing to his center where it really belonged, and Starsky fled the bed, pacing to the window, pulling the drapes and staring out over the Pittsburgh skyline. Lost in self-blame, he threw a vicious punch that stopped just short of impacting glass. "I'm so in love with him, I can't stand it."

"Thought as much," Huggy almost whispered. "Why am I in this room, instead of him?"

"When I met him, he was just a beautiful man. Wanted to get in his pants so bad I would've done anything. But days after he first showed in Vero Beach, I was caught. He got inside me somehow, Hug, and I don't mean physical. Not back then. We didn't get in bed until the tail end of his first season with us. Didn't realize I was head over heels until that Cardinals series when he went after Cameron for me."

"Thanks for the history lesson. Not that I'm uninterested, but you're cleverly avoiding my question like I knew you would. What happened to land you in separate rooms? You're pushing him away with both hands and a foot for good measure, and it don't make sense."

Starsky clenched his fists at his side. "That line drive at Shea could've killed him, Huggy, and it was my fault. I knew what MooMoo could do with a fastball if it caught the wrong part of the plate. He's a pull-hitter without a quick bat. He connects with a fastball on the outside corner, and he's gonna pull it straight-away center. Right into Hutch! I got caught daydreaming. Lost in Hutch. When I sat in that ER lobby, I had a hard talk with myself. Sex, friendship, buddy-love, fine. Being in love with him had to go."

"Only, you couldn't turn off the emotion like a tap," Huggy said. 

"No."

"Didn't even tell him you'd fallen for him, did you?"

"No."

Huggy whistled. "I s'pose you got what you call a reason for that? And you climb my ass for withholding info! Man, Starsky, when you close the floodgates, you turn into the Hoover Dam!"

Starsky shot a silently menacing "back off" warning over his shoulder. Huggy pretended to cringe back against the headboard, and Starsky shrugged off the teasing, turning back to the night sky above the city. "I wasn't ready at first, then his injury scared me spitless, and in the offseason, he met this doctor lady. Called me up sounding reborn. I was so jealous I couldn't see straight. After all the women I've bedded, like I got some right to begrudge him a nice lady!"

"You know, sometimes jealousy ain't half bad. Shows you what's important. Provided you got the smarts to know less is more in the green-disease department."

Starsky ignored the jive-talking sage on the bed. "Then, the pneumonia hit. Just a reminder of what a shitty mistake I'd made at Shea. I had to watch Hutch fight for breath, and it was like he waited for me to get there to really start fighting. His gran even said something like that. God, I'd never been faced with something that intense. Even his doctor girlfriend said she didn't rank near me in his life. I couldn't handle it, knowing I was partly responsible for him being in that hospital bed. If he'd never taken that hit to the lung, he might not have had the pneumonia, or it might not have been so bad. Minute he was out of the hospital and on the mend, I hit the road back to LA."

"Is that why since Spring Training you been acting like you're sitting for a college final every time you're behind the plate? I was wondering why loose-as-a-goose Starsky had turned into a curly-topped robot this season."

"I have to concentrate out there, Hug. Make sure I'm considerin' every angle. Can't go by instinct and the seat of my pants anymore. Not after seeing how vulnerable Hutch is on that mound."

"How vulnerable all pitchers are," Huggy corrected. "They know the risks. People talk about football players getting paralyzed or getting their necks broke and dying. Well, football ain't got the market cornered on lethal sports injury. Baseball has its moments, too. Any time you got a solid object flying off a bat fit to break the air-speed record, you run the risk of someone getting too close to comfort. That's just part of it."

"Granted. But this is Hutch we're talking about," Starsky said, hearing the agony in his own voice. "I'm so damn scared of losing him. Injury, trade, whatever, if I couldn't see him every day during the season, I'd go outta my mind. At least like this he's here on the team, he's safe. You probably think I'm already nuts."

"No, I always pay attention when David Starsky admits to fearing anything. Why won't you fill Hutch in on the big picture?"

"I can't." Starsky shut his eyes to the twinkling city lights. They reminded him painfully of the sparkles in those baby blues when Hutch was carefree and happy. He hadn't seen the sparkles in months. "We're in the playoffs again. Can't risk doing a number on him with all this. I need to get my head together about it anyway. I know he's miserable, and when he's miserable he gets nasty, and when he's nasty he riles me more'n anything ever, but I-- Ah, shit. If we can just get through the season, maybe I can pull my head out of my ass and figure out what to say."

"Talk about shoes. I wouldn't wanna be in yours, compadre."

"I don't like 'em either," Starsky said, pressing his forehead against the hotel room window. 

"If I may be permitted one final question," Huggy drawled, "just out of curiosity and a genuine concern for your sanity considering you're team captain, why the hell have you taken to sleeping with a striped pillowcase like it's the newest line in teddy bears?"

~~~~~~~

Yankee Stadium, the Bronx, New York   
October 1978

"Welcome to the most famous ballpark of all time, Dodger fans—historic Yankee Stadium, the house that Ruth built, and the mythical resting place of more baseball legends than Cooperstown. We're about to start the third game of the World Series under cloudy New York skies, and Dodger fans have reason to rejoice with Los Angeles up two games to none in the series so far. I'm Bill Evans, joined by Pat Guiterez, and you're tuned in to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980. This is the match-up of fantasy for baseball fans, Pat."

"One of those all time rivalries, Bill. When the Dodgers hailed from Brooklyn, they met the Yanks in the Series a total of seven times between '41 and '57, playing their first game as a West Coast franchise in '58 and meeting the Yankees in the Fall Classic for the first time as the Los Angeles Dodgers in '63. For this Dodgers team, the classic re-match is special for personal reasons. David Starsky was born in Brooklyn, but he pulled for the Bronx Bombers as a kid, and now he's facing them in Dodger colors. Then, there's Lloyd Herman Eckworth, the hitting coach, and Bob Reasoner, the third base coach. Both are Yankee alumni, returning to the famed stadium on the side of the opposition."

"After excellent outings by Desmond and Nash, Dobey is sending Ken Hutchinson to the mound today. The Yankees are depending on the Hall-of-Fame-worthy pitching arm of Louisiana Lightning." 

"Hutch will need all his stuff, Bill. He'll have to keep the Yankees' bats cool to win this one. The Dodgers have both intelligence and power in their lineup, but they'll struggle to generate offense against the Yankees' brilliant left-hander from the Bayou State." 

"Well, Pat, let's hope some of that famous team chemistry between Starsky and Hutch makes a reappearance today."

~~~~~~~

When Hutch shook off the third sign with a downward tilt of chin, Starsky muttered an obscenity and flipped his mask, waving to the umpire for time. He walked calmly out to the mound even though his temper urged a stomp. Hutch's eyes were daggers trying to pin him from a distance. He invaded Hutch's space and whispered behind his lifted mitt, "F'the love of all that's holy, Hutch. The bases are loaded. Now with Mr. October at the plate, you wanna stand up here and play God?"

"Well, why not? The pitcher's mound is the pitcher's kingdom, right, or was that just more of your empty talk? Besides, I'm more familiar with AL hitters than you are. Catchers don't have the final say-so in what gets thrown to the plate. I've had good reason to disagree with your signs in the past and you didn't come up here pitching a fit."

"I ain't pitching a--" Starsky exhaled and inhaled slowly. "I'm not questioning your ownership of the mound. And you're right: you've waved me off from time to time since the beginning, and some of the times you knew your business and saved us a shellacking. Not this time. I know you, Hutchinson. Right now you're shaking me off just to get under my skin. Fine. We'll play it your way. Hell, it's just the World Series. No big--ah, damn. Here comes Dobey."

The manager huffed his way onto the mound and stood with his hands in his uniform's back pockets. "All right, Hutchinson. You know if I come out here a second time, you'll have to come out of the game, and I didn't write the rules so don't glare at me. Let's settle it now. What's going on?"

"I want to pitch him high and inside, Captain. He can't lay off high and inside fastballs, and he gets jammed, he doesn't make contact."

Dobey glanced at Starsky. "Sounds right to me, what's the problem?"

Starsky heaved a sigh, wanting to yank the gum wad from Hutch's mouth and stick it between his two superior-as-hell blue eyes. "The problem is, Louisiana Lightning likes to practice zooming fastballs up around the uniform lettering, and Mr. October got a few good whacks in. I saw 'em out on the field earlier this afternoon working on it." 

"I say it's worth the risk," Hutch said, smacking his gum a mile a minute. "He might be used to Louisiana's fastball, but it's been a while since he's seen mine."

Starsky groaned, slapping a hand to the top of his catcher's helmet. "Oh, there you go with the 'my fastball is different' jazz. A four-seam heater is a four-seam heater. When are you gonna learn--"

"Enough!" Dobey barked. "Whatever's between the two of you, I want it shelved until this Series is over. Your teammates are depending on you, and you owe it to them to get your act together. Hutch, you're right in theory, but Starsky's got a point. Try the outside curve and if he fouls it off, then hit him with the high and inside and we'll all have to pray he doesn't leave it sitting at the base of the Babe Ruth memorial in Monument Park."

~~~~~~~

Los Angeles / St. Paul, Offseason  
November 1978

"Starsky here."

"S-Starsky . . . ."

"Hutch! Hutch, what's the matter? Talk to me. You're crying!"

"Gran's dead, Starsky. I went in to wake her for breakfast, and she's--she's gone. Went in her sleep."

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry, Hutch. I know you gotta be in pieces. How long ago was this?"

"Couple hours ago. I know we're not--not getting along, but I need you here, Starsky."

"Jesus, you think you have to ask? I was already reaching for my plastic to book a flight. I'll be there soon as I can. Hear me? Sit tight, buddy."

~~~~~~~

Hutch had cried himself dry of tears in the week since Gran Willa's death. 

In the airport that first day, Starsky had dropped his bag and took Hutch in his arms, holding him without a care what passersby might think, totally unconcerned that a wandering reporter would recognize them and sniff a story. Hutch had clung to that warm, strong body and took comfort from the tender, iron arms. His sobs had shaken both of them, physically and emotionally. 

From that moment on, Starsky had been at his side, a slightly shorter, curly-headed shadow, through all the formalities that came of losing a loved one. Hutch's parents were out of the country yet again, Kenneth Hutchinson involved in an oil project in South America and his wife having chosen to accompany him. For Gran's wishes to be fulfilled, their presence wasn't required, and Hutch was honestly grateful: his parents' standoffish approach to grief would have been the final straw. The hardest part for him to accept was the knowledge that his parents would not be upset at Gran's "memorial service" taking place before they arrived home. They would be proud of him for handling it with minimal fuss. 

Gran had insisted on cremation, and she had wanted her ashes scattered in her precious backyard garden, in the presence of two people--her Ken and his Starsky. With Starsky's arm around his waist, Hutch lifted the urn, whispered his grandmother's favorite prayer, and let the physical essence of the most beautiful woman in the world blow free across grass that would shine green in spring and bushes waiting for June to burst out in roses.

They went inside after a silent moment of bowed heads and side-hugs, and Hutch beckoned for Starsky to follow him up the stairs. He listened to the music of Starsky's footsteps behind him on the old boards. In the familiar sitting room lacking Gran's warmth, the fireplace cold and silent, he walked over to the mantel and pulled down a porcelain doll--a little boy with cornsilk hair, rosebud cheeks, pert nose, and pristine white sailor suit. He handed it to Starsky. 

"Ah, Hutch," Starsky said softly. 

"My grandfather gave him to Gran on my third birthday. She wanted you to have him after she-- She spoke of it often. She also left a note I was supposed to give you when I gave you the doll." Hutch lifted the ornate embossed lid of his grandmother's porcelain jewelry box and plucked a small pink, scented envelope. The scent, vanilla and roses and reminiscent of his grandmother, made his eyes fill, but he knew the tears wouldn't fall. 

Holding the doll against his chest with his arm, Starsky gingerly slit the envelope with a fingernail and pulled the note free. The simple gesture told Hutch just how much Starsky respected Gran. He was not one to take care with envelopes. Like he did with gifts, he usually tore into them with abandon. Starsky's eyes were misting, and the firm set to his mouth wavered as he read aloud.

"'Starsky, the doll is just porcelain and pretty. He won't ever disagree or burden you with demands. He is never needy. He is also incapable of love. Keep the doll on a shelf and enjoy its beauty, but recognize it for what it is. My Ken I leave to you as well. He is as flawed as the next person and he may insist on his own way, or swing between needy and stoic so quickly you can't catch up. But his love is great and lasting. Please love him in return, and don't ever let him change. –Willa Hutchinson.'" 

Starsky folded the note and slipped it carefully back into the envelope. "Hutch, I--"

Hutch reached out and squeezed his friend's shoulder. "Gran didn't accept that real life is more complicated than her belief in the happy ever after. I've done some thinking, and you're right. We weren't going anywhere with what we were doing, and it just messed me up inside. We were better together before we starting sharing a bed. I want us to be the friends we were in the beginning, after I got over being a hard ass and you quit teasing me about college. You being here for me through all this, you've been amazing. Your friendship means everything to me; I don't want to lose it, for any reason."

Starsky looked stunned. Hutch scratched an eyebrow and waited with bated breath. Starsky's face broke into a toothy, crooked grin, and he wrapped his free arm around Hutch's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Want to go back to being roomies, then?"

Well, that's a definite sign Starsky agrees wholeheartedly with the platonic concept. "Sure," Hutch said to the prospect of rooming together, ignoring the splintering in the vicinity of his patched-up heart. "We need to work on our pitcher-catcher chemistry. My one World Series appearance, and I blow it."

"Aw, Hutch, you were right about pitching the high and inside to Reggie. Caught him swinging after he fouled that outside curve into the stands behind home. We lost that game, yeah, but we also lost the next three, so it's not like you can carry the blame. Next year we'll make it again, and we'll kick ass, whether it's in the Bronx or wherever."

"At least you got your hard-earned Gold Glove," Hutch said, smiling. He wondered why Starsky's grin dimmed.

~~~~~~~

Practice Field, Dodgertown, Vero Beach  
February 1979

Captain Dobey watched his two star players and tried to get a feel for their interaction. To him, they weren't sports celebrities; they were a blond migraine and a curly-haired ulcer. Yet he wouldn't trade them for Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra in their prime. 

He didn't know the particulars, but the two had obviously declared a ceasefire during the offseason. Perhaps it had something to do with Hutchinson's grandmother dying. Or maybe the World Series defeat had sobered them up and renewed their focus on the game. Whatever the agent of the peace accord, he thanked God for its result in the same breath that he gave thanks for Edith and the kids. Starsky and Hutch didn't have the one-mind unity of two seasons previously, but they were headed there, gradually but unmistakably. They were sharing their usual condo in the team complex, for one thing. Hopefully that meant they would be roomies on the road trips. For whatever reason--and Dobey had a feeling he really didn't want to know--they simply functioned better on the field and off when they shared a room. 

He glanced at third base where Leotis Jones fielded ground balls, and winced: an exceptional athlete, no doubt, but Leotis lacked Whitelaw's finesse and quick thinking. Regardless what Peter did in the bedroom, he was a damn fine ballplayer, and sorely missed. Since joining the team the past May, Leotis had been slow to fit in, and had committed costly errors during the season's homestretch. Dobey made a mental note to talk to GM Ryan about hunting a new third baseman. 

~~~~~~~

Seething, Hutch watched Starsky twirl the blonde's curl around his finger. Did they have to cuddle on the damn patio? 

Kira. A sports medicine intern assisting Dr. Meredith for a practicum, she was a true professional, clearly serious about being a success in one of the fields that still quietly discouraged women, but her demurring that she didn't fraternize with players rang suspect in view of her immediate conquest of Starsky. She knew baseball, she knew athletes, and... 

...Hutch hated her, ridiculous as he knew that made him. 

He couldn't very well hate Starsky. Hadn't he basically told the man he didn't want them to even try for a romantic relationship? Right, and that clever bit of psychology had fallen flat. Hutch couldn't believe he'd thought selling that load of bull to himself and to Starsky would really erase love years in the making. Or make it easier to bear.

Hutch rubbed his sore shoulder. Practice had taken its toll today. He should have let the trainer look at it, but Kira was the only one in the medical office when he'd stopped by, and he did not want her hands on him. Any part of him. She had flirted prettily with him, but he'd given her a firm "save it for Starsky" look and marched right back out, determined to soothe the shoulder's ache on his own.

He decided to take the drastic step of going to Starsky's bathroom for Ben-gay instead of sifting through his own junk. If Starsky had any, the tube would be sitting neatly on the counter by the sink. Cursing the shoulder, and trying hard not to think of rotator cuff injuries, Hutch ambled into the bedroom. A flash of color on the otherwise bland cream comforter snagged his attention. He pulled the folded bed linen the rest of way from under Starsky's pillow and stared for a full minute believing it had to be a miraculously tangible mirage. 

The pillowcase! He had thrown it away in Philadelphia, but Starsky must have seen it in the wastebasket and retrieved it. Why had he kept it? Hutch vowed to ask Starsky the minute he had the man to himself. Stuffing the pillowcase where he found it, he continued into the bathroom, located the ointment, and tended his shoulder. 

When he came back into the living room, he found Starsky sprawled on the couch and no Kira in sight. "Where's Kira?" 

Starsky smiled. "Had to go fill out some papers for Meredith."

"You going out with her tonight?" 

"Nope. She'll be working pretty late, so I'll wait until tomorrow night for a big date. Valentine's Day. . . kinda appropriate. I think I love her, Hutch."

Hutch stumbled backward and sat down heavily on one of the kitchenette's barstools. Gone was the necessity of questioning the pillowcase's presence on Starsky's bed. What did it matter? He forced a smile of his own. "Well, Romeo, if you're not going out with her, do you want to grab a bite with the guys or stay here and order pizza?"

"Pizza. I know your shoulder's hurting too bad for you to enjoy a night on the town. Come here, and let me massage the muscle. Kira told me you wouldn't let her help. Don't trust a woman, babe? That's not like you."

Woman has nothing to do with it. Don't trust her. Any farther than I can throw her with a sore shoulder. "Starsk, come on. I just didn't know how you'd feel about your girlfriend's hands all over my arm. She gets a good look at my muscles, you might be out the door."

Starsky burst out laughing and flung a couch cushion at him. 

~~~~~~~

Balboa Park, San Diego   
May, 1979

Towel slung around his shoulders, dabbing his face with one end of the cloth, Starsky returned to the hotel from a training-sanctioned run in the gorgeous San Diego springtime. Not much for working out except during the required team sessions, he had used exercise as an excuse for time alone. With game time just hours away, he wanted fresh air to clear his head. He'd welcomed being stopped by several roller skaters for an autograph. Any distraction suited him. 

Being friends with Hutch came naturally, but the joy remained bittersweet, and Starsky could tell himself his heart had recovered from the stunning blow Hutch dealt it following Willa's death, but repeating the lie didn't make it truth. He could pride himself in having something more than a one night's stand with the lovely sports medicine intern temporarily attached to their team, but pride didn't make it love. He knew he needed to sit Kira down and tell her so, in the kindest terms possible, but Hutch was starting tonight, and Starsky wanted no unpleasant scenes before the game. Tomorrow they had nothing scheduled but the trip home, hopefully after polishing off a sweep of the Padres, and maybe he could finally extricate himself from the train wreck of another doomed-from-the-start love affair. 

~~~~~~~

"Just a minute!" Hutch called. He cinched the tie on his bathrobe and went to answer the door, trusting that hotel security wouldn't allow reporters to breach the sanctity of the team's floor. If an intrepid reporter had made it this far and wanted a picture of Hutch in a ratty orange bathrobe, more power to him or her. He flung open the door and paused with his hand on the jamb. "Kira. Starsky's out on a run."

"Actually," she said, pushing past him, "I'm looking for a diamond solitaire earring."

"I don't understand." He let the door slip closed. "When would you have lost it in here?"

"Oh, yesterday before you guys had to report to the stadium, we took advantage of your pitchers' meeting." She giggled. 

Smile a little wider, gloat a little more, why don't you? If you were a man, I'd knock the smirk off your face. "Well, I don't remember seeing an earring."

"Oh? Do you mind if I have a look around?"

"Maybe you should come back when Starsky's here. As you can see, I'm hardly dressed for company." The effort to smile was quickly becoming superhuman. 

Her wide, little-girl-innocent eyes showed disbelief in his allusion to impropriety. "Don't be silly. I'm sure David trusts both of us."

"I'm sure he does. All the same . . . " Hutch watched her bend and lift the skirt from Starsky's bed and grew impatient as she pushed her hair back from her face to peer beneath. Uttering a "Why me?" under breath, he joined her at the bed to lend a hand, hoping to hurry her from the room. Closeness brought a stunning discovery. One look at her ear told him she wore clip-ons. 

"This earring? It's a diamond stud, set in gold, surgical steel post?"

"Yes, that's right. You have seen it?" 

"Kira."

Catching the tone of his voice, she straightened and stood her ground with an unwavering gaze, but her thin silk blouse and fitted slacks showed her trembling to great effect. Suddenly he wanted to pick her up and deposit her outside the door. 

This was dangerous. 

He hadn't realized the extent of his own vulnerability until that very second, standing there aching for Starsky and provided with a target for his inner turmoil: a woman with a tie to Starsky he understood on an intimate level. Electricity crackled along the nape of his neck that had nothing to do with desire. Not in the usual sense of the word. She vibrated with it, too. 

One step closer to her, and they would end up in bed, having sweaty ravenous sex, the interlocking of bitter rivals and absolutely nothing to do with passion for each other. Kira obviously intended to show him why Starsky wanted her; he needed to literally thrust the point home that he could give Starsky better, but to commit such a despicable act would sink him even lower than his darkest, angriest imaginings, and Kira wouldn't come out on the other side feeling human, either. He'd have a momentary outlet for his pain and pent-in feelings, she would have an outlet for whatever thrummed through her turning her eyes to liquid blue flame, and at the end, they would hate each other just as much and themselves even more. 

Then, without taking one step closer, he looked deeper into her eyes, and understood why she had come to the room. She was losing Starsky, and she knew it. He recognized the desperation. If he gave her permission, she would rend the sheets on the bed, knock over lamps, and crack mirrors with the same anger and need to lash out he had experienced in Philadelphia the night Starsky locked him out of his bed and seemingly out of his heart. The electric hate and spark of rivalry died, replaced by grudging sympathy for her. Losing someone like Starsky could make a person wild enough to pull any stunt.

"You should leave now," he said, barely above a whisper. 

She caught her breath in a whimper. "You need him, too." He said nothing, unable to discuss his feelings for the most precious person in his universe with this pretty interloper. She brushed at her eyes with elegant fingertips. "It must be nice to be Starsky and have two people who want him so much."

She didn't use the word "love." He had the sense if she tried, she would burst into tears, which she seemed determined to avoid. Kira was a woman used to getting what she wanted, and she had run up against the one person she really wanted and couldn't possess. Hutch wasn't saintly; he had no intention in hell of letting her know he couldn't possess him, either.

"I shouldn't be here," she said, as if waking from a dream.

He nodded his agreement and went to open the door to tactfully hasten her departure. He came up hard against the astonished stare of his best friend, Starsky about to slip the key in the lock, and Hutch felt his airway all but disappear. 

"S-Starsky . . . ."

Kira didn't help matters by putting a hand to her mouth in a gesture of guilty surprise, as though uncertain which was more shocking, Starsky returning to his own hotel room or catching her there with Hutch. She choked out a sob and stumbled past Starsky to the hall. The sound of her footsteps quickening to a run filtered back into the room.

Starsky turned outraged eyes on Hutch. "Why, you lousy--"

"Starsky--"

"I can't believe you--why, why could you do this to me!" At Starsky's broken voice and subsequent furious gurgle, Hutch stepped forward and directly into a fist that impacted his gut with more emotional force than physical. Starsky stared at his fist like he hoped it would fall off, then whirled and left the room, the sweaty towel falling from his shoulders and lying like a dead thing over the threshold. 

Clutching his stomach, Hutch had no time to locate suitable clothing. Not caring if his robe came apart and he flashed everyone in the hotel, he dashed into the hall. "Starsky!" He reached out and gripped Starsky's arm. 

Starsky shrugged free. 

"Starsk, please! Come back to the room where we can talk."

Starsky had looked at opposing pitchers with a less threatening set to his rugged features. "Got nothing to say to you."

"Please. If--I . . . " Hutch risked being seen by curious eyes and touched a palm to Starsky's cheek. "If I've ever meant anything to you, come back to the room."

Starsky's expression changed. He drew in breath the way Hutch had when socked in the gut. Pulling free of Hutch's touch, he strode back toward the room, and Hutch followed slowly, psyching himself up for what he needed to say. He found Starsky standing just inside the door, at loose ends and not letting his eyes linger on any piece of furniture. Closing the door, sliding the latch in addition to the lock, Hutch knew the next few minutes would forever change the rest of his life, for the better or disastrously. 

"Nothing happened. I won't lie and say I didn't have a vulnerable moment when it could have. Believe what you want. Just be honest with me." Hutch gathered his courage, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and commanded his voice not to waver. "Were you jealous of me being with her, or of her being with me?"

Starsky stared through him for an interminable period. The walls came crashing down, leaving the man's face more war-torn than Hutch had ever seen. Walking into Memorial and finding Starsky nursing a cup of untouched coffee outside the ER family room after Terry's death, Hutch hadn't seen this kind of agony. 

"I don't wanna think about her hands on you, Hutch. God help me, I don't want anybody's hands on you--!"

But mine. 

The two words were projected in Starsky's eyes. 

Hutch couldn't answer in words of his own. There were none sufficiently strong if he could have gotten his mouth to produce speech. He touched fingers shaking with hope to Starsky's cheeks and kissed him. Starsky released a pained sound, and then his mouth softened, opening wide and controlling the kiss before Hutch could even react. Gasping, they pressed together, not moving their mouths quickly enough over each other's to suit either one, and stumbled over the floor until the back of Hutch's legs made contact with Starsky's bed.

Starsky pushed him down to sit on the foot of the mattress and dropped to his knees on the floor between Hutch's legs. Hutch closed his eyes, unable to handle the eroticism of Starsky's casual beauty: sweat-stained batting t-shirt clinging to muscle in all the right places, team gym shorts spread thin over Hutch's favorite package, and black curls glistening from perspiration. This was the earthy athlete Starsky rarely, if ever, showed his women. Gasping as Starsky untied his robe, Hutch inhaled the scent of sweat, letting it remind him of their rowdiest tumbles, and felt Starsky's hands and mouth on his chest, the moisture and whisper touches trailing down to his groin. Murmuring sexy nonsense, he opened his eyes to the gorgeous sight--and exquisite feel--of Starsky licking his cock from tip to base, working the foreskin just the way Hutch liked, the way only a man, even one cut like Starsky, would know how to do. 

"I thought I'd never--oh, God," Starsky groaned, sounding ripped asunder, and sank his mouth over the cock he'd teased. Hutch reached for the curly hair his fingers had missed too long and gently held the head down over his lap. "Oh-oh, Yes!" Starsky gasped around his mouthful. 

Biting down a scream when Starsky's mouth quickened on him, Hutch drew his fingers down to stroke the jaw and throat hard at work. Starsky's hands settled on his sac, engaging in his second favorite form of ball playing, but Hutch weakly shook his head. "No . . . do . . . you know . . . ."

Starsky didn't lift his mouth, but Hutch felt the lips curve in a smile around him. He didn't have the view he liked in this particular position, but the movement below told him Starsky had pulled his own cock free of its cloth restraint and was busily jerking himself off at Hutch's request. 

Hutch wanted to verbalize the joy and healing taking him by benevolent storm, but he sank under waves of desire and lost his way. When he came to his senses, Starsky's throat moved in swallows, drinking him down, and Hutch heard his own voice moaning, "I love you, I love you, I love you . . . " until orgasmic reaction left him hoarse. 

The first time he had ever said the words to Starsky in a romantic, sexual context. 

He tried to assess the reaction. Starsky sat back on his haunches and offered him a blazing, uninhibited, satisfied smile. He doubted it was all due to orgasm. Hutch took Starsky's wrist in a firm grip and brought the hand up to lick it free of sticky fluid. Starsky sprang and knocked him over, crawling up on to the bed and pressing his nose to Hutch's navel. 

"Oughta be shot," Starsky muttered, kissing the skin nearest his lips. "Bad enough to hit you. Jesus! But to throw a punch before game time!"

Hutch smiled. Fools who didn't know better would say the remarks lacked romance following such a passionate encounter, but the words and voice sang with love. "It's okay."

"Was so mad, so jealous, and I couldn't--"

"You couldn't hit Kira. Right. Believe me, I know what you mean. I almost ended up in bed with her for the same reason. That would've been just as abusive under the circumstances as a slap, even with her standing there wanting sex. Not sex, really, just . . . Starsk, you'll need to handle her softly. I think she knows it isn't working out with you two, and she's taking it rough."

"I know," Starsky said, turning his head to rest his cheek against Hutch's stomach. "I think she knows why, too. That's why she came after you in her own way. But she's not the type to carry tales. She's a pro, and she's a class act. I'll talk to her after the game."

Hutch stroked through the soft hair brushing his skin. "You never loved her."

"I tried. Thought it would be easier on me . . . " Starsky raised his head and looked in Hutch's eyes. "You never stopped wanting me."

"I tried. Thought it would be easier on me," Hutch quoted. "We have a lot of lost time to make up for, Starsky."

"Agreed. After the game, I'll have a chat with Kira, and then you and I'll plead headaches, sore muscles, whatever's convincing, and come back to this hotel room long before curfew. Make love until we pass out, put hand-towels in our mouths to keep the noise down."

Hutch laughed. "I can't wait! That's our new ground rule, then? Hand-towel gags so we're not overheard?"

Starsky's eyes were solemn. "I got a real ground rule, Hutch. My rule is, we don't need rules, 'cause it's just gonna be us."

Hutch thought he might pass out right then, and he couldn't blame post-coital oxygen deprivation. "You mean exclusive?"

"You want?" Thin-lipped, giving nothing away, Starsky seemed to wait for a cue to either smile or bite down on all emotion. 

Hutch tugged playfully on his lover's curls. His lover. He could think that now, say it, feel it! "Of course, I want! You have no idea, well, maybe you do, since you don't want anyone's hands on me, it's just that I . . . . You're not concerned about our careers? Peter's right, you know. We're walking a fine line."

Starsky's face showed fierce anger, the kind that had nothing to do with Hutch and everything to do with Starsky himself. "Listen to me. Baseball has never been more important to me than you, and one day maybe I'll forgive myself for making you believe otherwise."

Hutch thought he'd reached the limit of breathlessness, but he was mistaken. He thumbed both of Starsky's cheekbones and whispered, "I love you." Starsky's eyelids fluttered closed and he expelled a cleansing breath. When the dark blue eyes were staring into his again, Hutch said, "Not to grill you, and it's not that I don't take you at your word, I just need something clarified. What happened to never giving up girl-sex or bisexual being easier on the digestion than gay?"

Starsky dismissed sexual orientation with a hand wave. "Dumbest remark ever to come out'a dummy's mouth. Bi, gay, doesn't matter, long's I get to be with you full-time. After getting a look at what my world is like when we're on the outs, I couldn't care less what label I wear, and labels got fuck-all to do with who I am inside.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, yeah, I like sex with women. So do you. So what? Some sex researcher would probably put us both down on a chart somewhere as bi. Whitelaw wants us to say we're gay. Doesn't matter a damn. Who I am inside is the guy who wants you, right down the line.” 

“And to the outside world?”

Starsky shrugged. “We wanna play ball, so we show them what they wanna see. We can dance and flirt with girls, come across as playboys too hung up on baseball to settle down, and get away without breaking their hearts or ours, but I don't need the straight, playboy image to breathe, or to be happy. I'm assuming you don't either." 

"You're what I need to breathe and be happy," Hutch said, meaning every word. 

"Oh," Starsky rumbled, "you're mine then, you hard-throwing boy; you're mine now!"

Hoping Starsky would call him his "hard-throwing boy" well into their eighties, Hutch found his arms full and his mouth taken prisoner by a man determined to lick every hair in his mustache. When Starsky's talented mouth left his, Hutch sighed, "Right now the last thing I want to do is go out there and pitch seven or eight innings."

"I must've blown your mind instead of something else," Starsky teased. "Anyway, you used to pitch some of your best ball after I gave you pre-game head."

"Hey, you blow me before every start, I might win thirty games this year." 

"My pleasure. I'd give you a double dose right now, but we've got twenty minutes to shower off and report in." Starsky backed off the bed and did a rep of side-stretches to loosen the muscles in his back.

Hutch enjoyed the brief show. He yawned and sat up. "Come here."

Starsky grinned and sidled closer. Hutch reached up to touch the tiny, dark mole beneath his right eye, the fainter blemish on his left cheek, the curve of lips that showed more teeth on the right side in his grin, the slightly bushier brow above the left eye, all the little quirks of feature that made him Starsky. All the places Hutch had wanted to touch their first time together when he was too excited to spare the time.

"I'm really here, Hutch. I love you."

Hutch exhaled a long breath he felt he'd been holding for four years. 

"So in love with you I'm spinning inside," Starsky continued. He wrapped his arms around Hutch and palmed the back of his head. Hutch let his forehead rest against the scent-soaked t-shirt over Starsky's midsection and gave himself up to completion of an entirely spiritual nature. 

~~~~~~~

San Diego Stadium  
May 1979

"If you're tuning in late, Dodger fans, you're missing an outstanding game. I'm Bill Evans and with me is Pat Guiterez, and you're listening to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980. Both Oxey Martin, the Padres' veteran righty, and LA's Ken Hutchinson have been in control of their game, but the bats have been hot for both teams, Pat."

"The score would be much higher, Bill, but both teams have stranded a fair number of base-runners. The hits have certainly been there despite both pitchers throwing good stuff. It's one of those games when the hitters are connecting with pitches they would usually have trouble with, Bill. And with the wind blowing out in right field, sluggers are really getting into the groove with their swings. I'd say Hutch has the overall advantage, because he doesn't depend on the curve as his 'out' pitch, and the star lefties on the Padres' squad are having trouble with his screwball." 

"I'd say another Hutchinson advantage is the teamwork with David Starsky. Baseball Digest commented during Spring Training that the two seem to have reclaimed most of their unique connection, and tonight has proven the famous telepathy is back in effect. Neither player has given a reason for last season's rift, but sources close to the team have speculated the cause to be personal. Hutchinson's grandmother had been ill for some time before her condition deteriorated toward the end of last season, and she passed away in November. The two were very close, and with Hutch's frightening injury and offseason bout with pneumonia the season before last, life outside of baseball was at an all-time high stress level for the ace right-hander."

"That's right, Bill. We like to talk about stats and make baseball a game of numbers, but it's emotional, too. Hitters get into slumps for reasons as varied as trouble with a girlfriend or arguments with teammates, and pitchers stumble for the same reasons. Add to that baseball superstitions and highly personalized batting/pitching rituals, and you can't remove the human element from the game."

"Well, Pat, Starsky and Hutch's return to nearly seamless pitch agreement is a welcome sight. We're currently in the bottom of the fifth inning, the Padres clinging to a slight 3-2 edge thanks to the solo round-tripper by outfielder Marty Simon last inning."

"Hutch has a daunting task ahead of him this inning, too, Bill. He's got two outs under his belt, but with Nicky Cairo on first, and Simon Marcus leading off third, a well-hit ball to right could easily bring home two more runs. And Johnny Lonigan is the right man to do just that. He tends to hit several of the pitches in Hutchinson's arsenal." 

"Lonigan fouls off a sinking fastball as we speak. If I'm David Starsky, I'm concerned about Marcus at third."

"Certainly, Bill. Longhaired even for today's standards and constantly at odds with his manager over his on-the-field appearance, Simon Marcus is one of baseball's many unique personalities. He's also a throwback to Ty Cobb in base running. He's tremendously aggressive, to the point some managers complain about malicious sliding, and the League has warned him about sliding with his cleats up. Again, Starsky's fearlessness as a catcher has shone through tonight. He stopped a run when he protected the plate against a harsh Marcus slide in the second."

"He'll have to protect the plate again, Pat. Lonigan has just connected with a Hutchinson slider and it's a one-hop over Huggy Bear's head at second into shallow center. Paco Ortega is running in to field while Marcus tags and heads for home. The speediest outfielder for the Dodgers in spite of his stocky physique, Ortega reaches the ball with ease, and he's challenging Marcus with a throw. This one's going to be close!"

"Marcus is sliding into home with both guns blazing, and Starsky is covering in front of the plate to give Ortega a chance. Looks like he'll have to reach for the high throw--Holy--! Oh, my God!"

"Dodger fans, we've just had a nasty collision at the plate. The umpire has called Marcus out, ending the inning, and Marcus is up and dusting himself off, but Starsky has curled over on his side and has yet to move. Pat, it looks like his left thigh is bleeding above the leg guard, but I'm guessing that isn't the only injury. Marcus barreled into him full-force in the middle of Starsky's stretch for the ball, and it appeared Starsky actually went airborne in the clash and came down hard on his tailbone and leg."

"Bill, I'm appalled. We were just discussing malicious sliding, and that was the most blatant example I've seen in some time. I'm surprised Marcus is standing, but it certainly looks like he meant to knock Starsky out of the game. He might have knocked him out of the entire season. Hutchinson has thrown down his glove and already made it to the plate. Dobey and the trainer are heading out. The other Dodgers on the field seem paralyzed. This has to have them and the rest of the bench in collective heart failure, Bill, after the nightmare on the mound season before last, and now this. Starsky has yet to budge a muscle. He's completely out, from the looks of it. I didn't see him hit his head, so I'm guessing he passed out from the pain of his other injuries."

"Yes, Pat. Hutch is on hands and knees, leaning over and, from this distance, it looks like he's talking into Starsky's ear but getting no response. The team physician has signaled for the field ambulance."

"Bill, they're pulling out the back board. Oh, no! Hutchinson is off his knees and heading straight for Marcus. The Black Baron is heading him off, and it's taking all his considerable strength to hold Hutch back. The umpire's ordering Marcus to leave the field--no, wait, the umpire has just ejected Marcus from the game! Here comes the Padres' skipper to argue the point, but the umpire is having none of it. I think it's the right call. That slide had intentional all over it." 

"Pat, Hutch knows something about being ejected from a game. He was tossed, along with Ted Cameron and Starsky, back in '77 during the now infamous LA/St. Louis brawl that resulted in several suspensions."

"That was an entirely different scenario, Bill, and I'm not just saying that because I'm a former pitcher, believe me. It's one thing for Cameron to protect his share of the plate, and Hutch to pitch Cameron high and inside to protect his batters from further reprisals. I'm not saying that situation was called for or that it wasn't potentially dangerous, but the intent was totally different. Neither man was interested in ending someone's career. What Marcus has done tonight takes baseball violence to a whole new level!"

"Pat, Huggy Bear has come over from second and is kneeling down by the plate with a hand over his mouth. I think that's a fair indication this is no ordinary injury. Now, this is a touching sight--Hutchinson has waved off one of the trainers and is helping to lift the stretcher bearing his teammate. You don't see too many pitchers of his caliber willing to risk straining a muscle in his pitching arm even for something like this. He's climbing into the field ambulance, too. I think he means to leave the field with him."

"Dobey's called the umpire over, Bill. I'm guessing he's informing the ump of a pitching change. In a close game, with Hutch's arm in good shape tonight, it's amazing that Dobey's willing to let him go. If we were in the playoffs instead of early in the season, I doubt you'd see this happen. But then, these two players have set precedents throughout their careers. Dobey does have options in his deep bullpen. I'd look for the rookie middle reliever Lionel Rigger to get an inning in, and Manny Birnbaum to come in earlier than usual and close."

"Speaking of precedents, you may remember Starsky left the game with his pitcher back in '77 when Hutch was nailed by the MooMoo Caifano line drive. We'll keep you posted, Dodger fans, as word comes to us regarding David Starsky's condition."

~~~~~~~

Starsky opened his eyes and gagged from blinding pain. He tried to move and found he couldn't. He tried to lift his foot and realized he had no idea where his foot was by feel. His eyes were still fuzzy, but he could see the lumps in the blankets that must be feet. Why couldn't he feel his legs? And how had he managed to get hit by a train in the middle of game time? He tossed his head back and forth to clear the fog from his brain. 

Hutch! 

Where was Hutch? Had he been in the way of the train, too? 

Starsky opened his mouth and screamed for Hutch. 

~~~~~~~

Resting his forehead in his palm, Hutch sat in the ER waiting area with one elbow propped on the chair's thin wooden arm. Suddenly revisiting his fury at the stadium, he struck a fist backward sharply into the wall and shook the chair next to him in the process. Gut-wrenching worry consumed him. He had felt ripped apart when Starsky screamed for him in the ambulance, but nothing compared to the pain and anxiety on hearing that Starsk couldn't feel his legs. Meredith had sworn that the pain in Starsky's back was actually a good sign, in a sense, as sensation in that area limited the range of possible paralysis. The doctor believed the numbness in Starsky's legs to be reaction to physical trauma and the pain centering in his lower back. But Meredith also feared the possibility of unstable L-vertebra compression fracture that might endanger the spinal cord and bring about actual paralysis. 

Hutch wouldn't know anything until someone came to give him word. Meredith had a free pass, as did Kira by virtue of her profession--and that had outraged Hutch to the boiling point--but no amount of shouting and demands on Hutch's part had gotten him admitted beyond the nurses' station. He'd had to watch them wheel Starsky away, and the sight of Starsky trying to crane his neck for one more glimpse of Hutch, despite his enforced prone position on the back board, made Hutch's throat tighten unbearably. 

A shadow fell over him, and Hutch looked up into Kira's tear-stained face. She lowered herself like a geriatric to the seat beside his. "He can feel his toes and stimuli along his legs now. He's not paralyzed. His left leg is broken in two places, and he does have an L-1 compression fracture, but it looks stable. He'll be kept overnight, possibly several days, while a back brace is fitted and he adjusts to the casting."

"When can I see him?"

"Dr. Meredith will come get you when he's cleared for visitation. He'll be spaced on pain meds." Kira dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her team jacket. "I'm sorry about this afternoon, Hutch. Showing up in your room like that, I--" She blushed and looked away. 

"It's all right. No harm, no foul. All's well that--" Hutch choked, unable to finish the glib aphorism. 

"It was just supposed to be about sex," Kira said. "With David, I mean. I had no intention of getting involved with him. I knew he wasn't serious about me. He slipped beneath my radar, and by the time I realized I was attached, I also knew I couldn't keep him."

Hutch nodded. He knew how that could happen. David Starsky could turn himself into a cell-sized force and slip into the bloodstream, rushing straight to the heart. "Kira--"

"Don't worry. I won't cause trouble. I've known how he feels about you since I started dating him, and I haven't said anything to anyone. I won't now. I'm not out for revenge."

"How did you know?" he asked, unable to silence curiosity and needing something else to think about besides Starsky in a cast and back brace. How could you know when I didn't? 

"Occasionally, David talks in his sleep. It's this recurring nightmare of your near-catastrophe on the mound at Shea Stadium. He relives it. Seeing you get hit in the chest, thinking you were dead when he got to the mound. The way he talks in the dream, it's clear he loves you more than he cares about anything else. More than baseball. Sure as hell more than me. I thought I could make him stop needing you, but I soon realized an act of God couldn't accomplish that."

Hutch swallowed hard. Starsky hadn't shown signs of nightmares when sleeping with him after the incident. He wondered if their separation had triggered the dreams. 

Kira broke the silence. "He blames himself, you know. I know that from more than his dreams."

He stared at her, amazed. "He shouldn't." Then he sighed. "I can't say I don't know the feeling. I'm re-running everything from tonight in my head, too. If I'd gotten Marcus out, this wouldn't have happened. If I'd pitched a screwball to Lonigan, I might've struck him out or forced him to pop up to end the inning, and this wouldn't have happened. Or hell, if Lonigan had knocked my pitch into left-center. A three-run shot would have been wonderful. Anything but this!"

"And David would kick your ass with his good leg if he heard you talking like that." 

Hutch looked at her in surprise, then smiled. "Yeah, guess he would."

She rose as slowly as she'd taken her seat. "I've got to go. I'm going to ask my university to find a new placement for my practicum. I have to concentrate on my career, and I have no objectivity with this team now."

He reached to shake her hand. "Good luck wherever you go."

"Thanks." 

He didn't watch her leave. 

~~~~~~~

Starsky opened his eyes. The pain had decreased dramatically. He felt like he was floating. Ah . . . Demerol. Sweet, seductive Demerol. He didn't like having pain meds pumped in his system any more than Hutch, though he didn't have the violent allergic reaction to morphine in his medical history that Hutch did, but now he found himself thanking the gods for the IV shooting comfort into his vein. His comfort increased by ten-fold not from the medicine but from spotting a sleeping blond at his bedside. Hutch sprawled half in and half out of the small visitor's chair, and his mustache moved with the rhythmic breathing of slumber. Starsky smiled. 

I love you. So much. You look like an angel in that gray away uniform. When you're in our home whites, you shine brighter than the sun. And you're mine; you're really mine! 

Hutch stirred in the chair, snuffling and snorting, and his blue eyes opened one by one, then widened, as he burst out of the chair. "No, Starsk; don't move! Didn't they tell you not to move? I mean, you're not supposed to even twitch. The orthopedist is going to oversee the brace fitting first thing in the morning, but until then, you're flat on your back and still as you can be. Okay?"

Starsky yawned. Sudden discomfort below his waist made him wince. "That's why I got a damn Foley stuck up my dick?"

"That would be why, lover. And your broken left leg contributed." Hutch stroked through Starsky's hair above his forehead, and the touch felt supernaturally good. 

"Back brace. Broken leg. How bad am I, Hutch? Sixty-day DL, what?"

"At least." Hutch sounded sad. "It'll be three months in the brace alone. I'm sorry, Starsk."

"Hey, what you got to be sorry for? Huh? They shouldn't let that psychopath in the damn game, that's what. The man tried to take me out, Hutch. Not out of the game, or out of the season. He tried to take me out! I kept thinking . . . when I woke up in the ambulance . . . that I'd been hit by a train. It hit me what really--uh--hit me when I was back there in the ER trauma room mad as hell that they wouldn't let you come with me."

"I know he'll probably just get an extended suspension and a fine, but I'd love to see his ass tossed out of the League." 

Starsky could swear he saw steam billowing from Hutch's ears. He chuckled. "Avenging Hutch. Stop it. You turn me on when you're like that, and I don't want a hard-on with a Foley."

Hutch gave him a wry smile. "On that hefty dose of painkiller, you probably wouldn't get hard if I stripped down and tried to rub off on you."

"Ack! Shush, damn you! It's dawnin' on me that sexual activity's gonna be 'bout as limited as baseball the next while, and you don't need to add to the torture. Damn, I should've had you up my ass before the game this afternoon. I just didn't think I could manage behind the plate without the whole sports world asking some pointed questions about my new squat."

Hutch threw back his head and laughed out loud. He sobered quickly. "I thought you'd decided you didn't like that. We couldn't do it except the night before travel days, but you stopped letting me even then."

Starsky struggled to manage deep, serious thought with the Demerol swimming in his bloodstream. "I loved having you up there, Hutch. If I could've figured out how to squat painlessly the next day we would've done it more than before off-days. Loved it too much, truth be told. Made me deeper into you every time we did it, just like being inside you got me higher and higher, and after what happened to you at Shea, I couldn't afford the distraction. Couldn't get my head together about that."

"Is that the real reason you pushed me away?" Hutch asked. 

"Yeah. That night at Venice Place, I realized I'd gone and fallen for you, and I was building up to telling you, but then you got hurt, and I flipped out for a while. I'm sorry for that, Hutch. I know what I did to you can't be excused."

Hutch bent and kissed his forehead, his cheek, left a small kiss on the bridge of his nose. "Hey, like you said, I wasn't easy shakes, either. We got through it, that's what counts. Let's leave the past in the past."

"I'm just glad I got a chance to tell you I love you before this shit happened. Wouldn't want you to think I'm committing just 'cause I'm a lame duck for a while."

Hutch looked ready to throttle him. Starsky had to remind himself not to move enough to quaver. "Starsky, I ought to—! After all we've been through together, you think I would've had such a dumbass idea?"

"You've got that look on your face, Hutch. The one that tells me I oughta get up and run. Can't exactly do that, so ease off the look, okay?"

Hutch eased off. He leaned over again and dropped a light kiss on Starsky's lips. "That better?"

"You know it. What time's it?"

"One a.m. The guys came by after the game, but you were zonked. They'll be back later before heading home. You'll be home in no time, buddy. I'm just glad we've got back-to-back home series. I won't have to go on the road until a couple weeks from now. I tried to hit Dobey up for personal leave, but he hit the roof." Hutch laughed. "Told me he'd boot me in the ass with cleats if I thought he was going to spare one of his Cy Young winners against the red hot Expos."

"Ah, Hutch. I'll be okay, but it means a lot that you wanted time off to be with me."

"At least I'll be able to help you adjust to the brace. I'll give you sponge baths and suck you off any time you want, if you promise to lie still and not jar your healing vertebra."

Starsky thought he might manage a hard-on with the Foley after all, but the excitement tripling his pulse was worth the risk. "Now, that's what I call the right kind of nurse!"

~~~~~~~

Starsky's apartment, Los Angeles  
One week later

Hutch kicked the LTD's door shut and carted the bag of groceries up the stairs to Starsky's apartment. He fished one-handed for his spare key, dropped tomatoes out the top of the bag, and thought better for a second of Huggy's suggestion that he hire a personal assistant for errands. 

"Well, Starsk," he said, pushing through the half-open doorway, "we've got homemade ketchup on your doorstep--" He fell silent, recognizing Starsky's agent on the sofa with his lover. 

Jason Sims might be a fancy lawyer, but he didn't make the best sports agent. But then, anyone was better than Bernard Gaven. Hutch continued into the kitchen, deposited the bag on the counter and didn't bother to put away the perishables before joining the pair in the living room. 

"Care to fill me in?" 

Starsky twitched uncomfortably in the back brace that forced him to sit on the sofa with rigid posture, and scratched uselessly at the cast on his left leg, which was propped on pillows on the coffee table. "I'm being released, Hutch."

"You're--what?" Hutch pulled a chair from the dining table and sat down heavily in it. He glared at Sims. "How are you allowing this?"

"Not much I can do," Sims said blandly. "Starsky's contract has a clause regarding back injuries, which are particularly detrimental to catchers, second only to permanent knee-damage. Gunther is well within his legal rights to drop Starsky from the team with a severance package not nearly generous enough in my estimation. He'll use the funds freed from Starsky's salary to pick up a hot catching prospect, most likely."

Hutch rubbed his face and counted to thirty to avoid blasting Sims off the couch. "How the hell did that get in Starsk's contract?"

"My fault, Hutch," Starsky said. "I signed outta high school, remember? I wanted to play ball, and I wanted to play for the Dodgers. I wasn't thinking about the future."

"Over the years I have tried to convince Mr. Starsky to re-negotiate, but he has refused."

Hutch transferred his glare to Starsky. Starsky fidgeted. A nearly impossible thing to do in his current condition, but he somehow managed. "Haven't wanted to rock the boat, Hutch, and end up benched during a long, drawn-out contract negotiation. Baseball's always been more important to me than legal jargon."

Hutch slapped his knees and stood. "Well, we'll see about this." He started for the door. 

"Hutch, where you going?"

"Never you mind. I'll tell you one thing, though. If Gunther lets you go, he'll be letting me go, too. Hell, I'll quit baseball altogether before I play on a team without you!"

"Mr. Hutchinson, I think your agent would have something to say about that."

Hutch lifted his finger and stabbed it at Sims. "My agent is my business. If he doesn't like it, he can get on his knees and kiss my ass. You make yourself useful, Sims, and put away the groceries. Don't slip on the crushed tomatoes on your way out." He marched out the door and slammed it behind him. 

~~~~~~~

The pounding on his door made Starsky groan. He hadn't quite mastered the trick of walking in a back brace and on crutches with a heavy leg cast weighing him down. The few steps from sofa to door took five full minutes. He opened the door and found a party waiting on his doorstep. Saluting and high-fiving him, Turkey, Jackson, Huggy, Taco, and the Black Baron filed into the apartment. Sims had left about an hour ago, and had actually put away the groceries and cleaned up the spilled tomatoes before he departed. Having gotten the patented Hutchinson do-it-or-be-sorry look, the lawyer hadn't even squawked about doing chores. 

"We came to keep you company until your blond nursemaid gets back," Turkey teased, smacking Starsky on the shoulder. 

Starsky hobbled back to his designated spot on the sofa, and Huggy helped him lift his leg to the pillows on the coffee table. Paco appropriated the rattan chair, Jackson perched on the opposite arm of the sofa, the Black Baron sat regally in the armchair, and Turkey dropped onto the floor in a relaxed sprawl. Huggy leaned on the sofa arm beside Starsky. 

"Until he gets back? That mean you guys have seen Hutch? He stormed out of here couple hours ago like a man on a mission, and I haven't heard a thing since."

Huggy cleared his throat. "Haven't seen him, but I know where he's been for at least part of the time. Your avenging angel drove himself to The Towers and marched his fool self right up to Gunther's office. Interrupted the Big Man dictating important correspondence to his secretary."

"Huggy, how in the hell--?"

Huggy smiled. "In this case, it's no big mystery. I'm sort of venturing into a romantic liaison with said secretary. She's a lovely little lady who doesn't mind whispering in the Bear's ear. I got a call soon as Dobey intervened and dragged Hutch out of Gunther's face by the seat of his pants."

"Nothing Hutch won't do for you, boy," Jackson said, sounding proud. 

Starsky felt his blood warm with pride and freeze with fear for Hutch at the same time. 

"I'd lay down odds that Dobey caught Hutch just before he was about to say a few things to Gunther that couldn't be taken back by God himself," Huggy continued. "The captain told Hutch to wait for him at the stadium office. Now, my beautiful little source doesn't know what the captain had to say, so we'll have to wait for Hutch to hear that part."

"Another reason you guys are camped out here," Starsky guessed, smiling. "Moral support in case both of us are minus our asses and uniforms after this."

"Something like that," Jackson Walters agreed. 

Taco stroked his mustache. "We're also here to tell you that if you do get to stay on the team, and you and the ace don't take to kissing in front of Colby and Desmond, you should be safe. We'll make sure you have plenty of space from prying eyes, amigo. We'll lie for you, give you cover stories, run interference, and anything else we can do."

Starsky stared at Taco, speechless. He cleared his throat, graduated to a cough, and tapped at his chest for emphasis. "But Taco, you're--"

Paco Ortega's face could be as expressive as Hutch's. Right now it showed outrage. "I'm what? A chicano from a barrio? Catholic? What stereotypical reason you gonna give that says I got to have some hang-up? Nowhere on my lucky rosary does it say two guys can't mean the world to each other, and if it don't say that on my blessed mama's--" Paco crossed himself and looked skyward-- "rosary, then it's not something I worry about." 

"Amen," Turkey said fervently. "I don't remember the Good Lord saying a thing on the subject, if I recollect all the special red print in my New Testament. I do remember Him being pretty big on the love-thy-neighbor idea, though."

"I have always said," the Black Baron intoned in his unique laughing voice, "that you two honorary soul brothers could share whatever you liked."

Starsky glanced at the man perched on the sofa arm. "Jackson?"

Jackson Walters smiled slowly. "If my boy Junior grew up to be like either you or Hutch, I'd consider myself a success raising him, and Mama would say the same thing. I admit I hope he finds himself a nice girl to settle down with, but if he chose a different path to walk, I'd love him just the same. God's Gospel. So am I likely to have a beef with you and Hutch, brother?"

Turkey tapped Starsky's cast with two light fingertips. "You and Hutch have Colby and Desmond fooled, and from what we can tell, the other guys on the team, with those in-your-face antics of yours. Good bluff. So open that people don't believe there's anything behind it. But you didn't have a prayer fooling us, ole buddy."

The door rattled as a key worked the lock, and Hutch pushed the door open, freezing halfway over the threshold before breaking into a smile. "Damn, Starsk. I leave for five minutes and you're giving a shindig."

"Five minutes, hell!" Starsky grumped. "I was about to send out the National Guard."

Hutch shut the door and walked over to ruffle his hair. "Anybody want a brew?"

He received a collective groan from the other team members, and Jackson spoke for all of them, "Don't keep us in suspense, man! What's going down?"

Hutch gaped at him. Huggy folded his arms. "Your shenanigans this afternoon are known to all of us, blond brother, so don't try to keep secrets. What did Dobey have to say?"

"I won't ask how you know, Huggy. I just won't." Hutch came around to sit down beside Starsky on the sofa. "Well, Starsky's probably told you the verdict about his injury? Tentative diagnosis is that with the severity of the L-1 fracture, even if it heals one hundred percent, he'll never tolerate the strain of nine-inning games crouched behind the plate every season."

"We guessed as much," Turkey said. "Damn."

"So my days as a Major League catcher are done," Starsky said. 

"But--" Hutch squeezed Starsky's healthy knee. "If he follows the rehab regimen to a tee after he's out of the cast and brace, he should be able to recover his ability to run, field, and swat the ball out of the stadium. Right, slugger?"

"Right. And that's what I plan to do."

"But Gunther was gonna release you anyway, the son-of-a-one-legged-dog," Turkey said. 

"Right. Dobey--uh--" Hutch's fair face grew vivid pink. "Dobey caught me before I could tighten the old man's tie."

Laughter rang out in the living room. Starsky wanted to kiss his hero, but he wasn't ready to test all of his friends' tolerance to that extent just yet. He satisfied himself with giving Hutch his best puppy eyes. Hutch looked flustered. 

"Dobey had me go wait for him at the stadium office. He tore me a new asshole when he got there, and I'm on his shit list for a year, I think, but he went to bat for us big time. Talked Gunther into keeping Starsky on as a potential third baseman since Leotis isn't working out."

Jackson snorted. "Leotis is a good guy, don't get me wrong, but the boy don't know third base. Got to be somewhere else for him. He swings one hell of a bat."

"How'd Dobey manage to change the hard ass's mind?" Turkey asked.

Hutch turned a look of pride on Starsky. "He reminded the old devil that Starsky can hit for average, hit for power, run, field, and throw. That's the definition of a superstar, and it's not economically sound to release a superstar just because he can no longer play a certain position."

"Way to go, Dobey!" Taco crowed. 

"How do you feel about third base, Starsk?" Hutch's eyes pleaded for a positive response. 

Starsky whooped. "I played some third in the minors. Not my favorite, but I'll adapt. Hell, I'll adapt into the next Brooks Robinson to stay on the team!"

"All I have to say is it's good you're ambidextrous," Huggy said. "Very few lefties play third base in the bigs."

"Hey, you kiddin' me? I learned in high school the hardest position to play left-handed is catcher. Why you think I learned to switch-hit and build up my right arm? I wanted to play catcher, and I knew I wouldn't be signed as a lefty, so I got my coach to work with me until I was as good at right-hand catching as any naturally right-handed catcher in our conference. I'll be fine playing righty third base. I'll get good enough to play lefty third base just in case. You wait."

"Well, you'll have the rest of the season to get ready as soon as you're out of the first round of rehab. Dobey won't risk bringing you back this season." 

"Aw, man!" Starsky groaned. "Sixty-day DL is one thing, but--"

"No buts!" Hutch said firmly, wagging a finger. "I want you back healthy, Starsk. So does Dobey. He called Peter while I was in the office and asked him to work with you on third base mechanics during his spare time from planning a political career. Peter said for such a good cause he'd actually darken the gates of Dodger Stadium again."

"Now, how you like them apples?" Turkey said, beaming. "Whitelaw gets my vote."

Starsky sighed. "All right, it's a great set-up. I just hate being off the roster for a whole season."

"What you really hate," Taco said, laughing, "is being away from Hutch. Admit it."

Starsky flushed, but Hutch's blush exceeded his. "He won't be away from any of us long, and he should know that without me telling him. Soon as he's out of cast and brace, he'll be medically cleared to travel with the team and suit up to sit on the bench. The trainers can handle his rehab wherever we are."

Starsky flung his arms around Hutch's neck and planted a slobbery smack on the nearest pink cheek. Hutch sputtered, and the living room filled with laughter again. 

~~~~~~~

Starsky's apartment, Los Angeles   
June 1979

Trying to place ownership of the strange car in the driveway beside the Torino, Hutch had to lean his entire weight against the LTD's door to get it closed. Bulging take-out bag from Starsky's favorite Chinese restaurant in hand, he whistled between smacks of gum and blown bubbles on his way to the steps. He nearly dropped the bag and swallowed his gum on sight of the man descending. Curly-haired, dark-eyed, and not nearly as handsome as his brother regardless of his well-tailored suit, Nick Starsky stumbled a step on seeing Hutch. 

"What are you doing here?" Hutch asked, realizing the words sounded hostile and uncertain where the hostility originated. 

Nick flinched. "I'm in town to visit Uncle Al and Aunt Rose. Thought I'd risk dropping by to see Davey, too."

"Risk?" Hutch was puzzled. 

Nick was openly shocked. "You don't know? I haven't talked to Dave since he told me about you guys. Until today, that is."

"Told you--?" Hutch clutched the take-out bag tighter. "When exactly was this?"

"In the hospital back when you got hurt. I guess it shouldn't surprise me he didn't tell you. I was an ass about it, and Dave might get all over my case, but he doesn't like me to look bad to others. Mama's taking it hard. I've tried to get her to call him, but she won't yet. Even after he got injured. She cries over him--about the injury, I mean--but she won't talk about the other. I woulda called before now, but I knew I was coming out here, and I wanted to tell him in person. You know, that I'm sorry for being a prize jerk."

Hutch ached inside for his lover. He would yell his ears off about not sharing the burden, but right now all he could feel was sympathetic pain. "I'm glad you came by. Probably did Starsky a lot of good."

"Dave told me you were willing to give up baseball for him. Told me you went to the owner himself on his behalf." Nick held out his hand. "Any guy with guts like that is a good match for my big brother." 

Hutch shook the hand and tried out a smile. "Thanks. I have a good example in your brother when it comes to bravery. Look, I've got Chinese here, you want to come back in and have some with us?"

Nick smiled, too. "Thanks, uh, but no. I'm due back at Al and Rose's. But maybe I'll see you guys again before I head back east."

"That'd be nice." Hutch watched Nick get in the car and back it around the LTD to pull into the street. Shaking his head, he continued up the stairs, fumbling for his key. 

Starsky flung open the door before Hutch could separate the keys on his chain. "I'm getting good at these crutches, babe."

Hutch walked past him toward the kitchen. "You're an incredible athlete, Starsky; you'd be good to go if they'd given you elongated toothpicks to walk around with."

He heard Starsky hobbling up behind him. "Lemme guess. You ran into Nick out there, and I'm in the doghouse big-time now."

Hutch yanked cartons out of the take-out bag and began opening them to serve the eats. "Admission of guilt isn't going to lessen the penalty this time, buddy. You bawled me out when I didn't tell you about some bruised knuckles on my pitching hand. You really think you're going to get away with not telling me about this?"

"When I was supposed to tell you, Hutch? While you were hurt, when you had the pneumonia, when we were at each other's throats, or after your granma died? When?"

"Try any time between when it happened and now!" Hutch glared at Starsky's developing chuckles. "What the hell is so damn funny?"

"I think we're having our first argument as a committed couple," Starsky said, snickering. 

"You want me to break out the champagne?" Hutch asked sarcastically. "I'm liable to break it over your head right now."

Leaning on his crutch arms, Starsky sandwiched Hutch's face in his hands. "Have I ever told you how beautiful your eyes become when you're angry?" He punctuated the compliment with a kiss that threatened to melt Hutch's anger. "Just like you're sexy on that pitching mound all intense and staring down batters like they're wanted felons and you're the Law come to town. Man, it's gonna be hard not to see all that beauty head-on during every game."

Hutch tabled the previous discussion for a touchier subject, though he knew Starsky capable of wangling the change in topic to derail anger. "Starsky, are you having a real problem with me pitching to Simmons?"

Starsky swiveled and took a seat at the table, cursing the tight back brace out loud. He laid his crutches in the adjacent chair and shrugged. "No, because he listens to me when I preach pointers at him. It's hard not having that direct teamwork with you, but we're still on the same team, and God knows, that was iffy at one point. Then there's our other kind of partnership." Starsky smiled. "Long as I got that, and I know a good guy is behind the plate looking out for you, then I can handle the change."

Hutch walked up behind him and massaged his shoulders, kissing his crown. "Pitching will never be the same for me without you behind the plate, Starsk. But you're the only person I'll ever pitch to in bed. And I can't wait until you're well enough to do a little pitching of your own. You're not the only one who misses having a cock up the ass, you know."

Starsky laughed. 

Hutch needed eye contact with his lover again for what was left unsaid. He propped a hip against the table to the side of Starsky's chair and his intent stare silenced Starsky's laughter. "I can't come down on you too hard for keeping secrets. I should've taken a chance on telling you how I felt about you from the get-go. We can read each other's mind on the diamond, but we're human. That means we need to open our mouths and actually talk about the important stuff, not leave it up to chance that one or the other will figure it out. I know guys aren't known for heart-to-hearts, but we need to get in touch with our feminine side enough to communicate the necessities."

Starsky's smile turned Hutch's knees to jelly. "Fair enough. Then here's something needs to be said. That stuff I said about a wedding cake in a courthouse somewhere? Bullshit, all of it. I wish we lived in a world where it could happen, and if the world ever gets its act together and allows it, I'll drag you to the nearest magistrate, come hell or high water." He narrowed his eyes. "Or are you still turned off on the whole institution of marriage?"

Hutch grinned. "If anyone can turn me on to it again, it's you."

"All right, then. In the meantime, we're gonna make this work, Hutch. We're gonna play ball as long as we can, and if what we have together catches up with us and we get left out in the cold, then we still got each other. There's life after baseball. We'll make it work. I promise. Yeah, that's a promise. I know after Philadelphia you got a right to question that word coming from me, but I'll prove you can trust any promise I make you. Some people might say twenty-nine is too young to know what you really want out of life, for the rest of your life, but we know, and we'll have it all."

Hutch believed him. After all, when David Starsky had a good idea, it usually became reality, simple as that.

The Chinese food grew cold while they shared a kiss that nourished them both.

~~~~~~~

Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles   
April 1980

"Welcome to beautiful Dodger Stadium on this pristine Opening Day of the new decade. I'm Bill Evans, joined by Pat Guiterez, and you're listening to Dodgers Radio on KFWB 980. Today is a special day for Dodger fans, Pat."

"That's right, Bill. Today is the return of David Starsky to the field in Dodger uniform. The team sorely missed him throughout last season. Sadly, his days as a catcher were finished by the massive collision at home plate that took him out of the season. Simon Marcus, the other player involved in the collision, was suspended for ten games and fined a substantial amount by the League. Marcus commented later in the season that he didn't understand the controversy. He also said in another interview that he dreamed he would knock Starsky out of the season and the collision at the plate wasn't intentional but a fulfillment of prophecy. Baseball is certainly a game of strange characters at times, Bill."

"Pat, the Dodgers never fully recovered last season, ending up third in the NL West, but Hutchinson did settle in to a new catcher after a period of adjustment. His stats aren't as high as the heyday of his teamwork with Starsky, but he's picking up momentum, and I look for him to have a good season this year."

"I agree, Bill. The real adjustment will be up to Starsky, who will take the field as a third baseman for the first time in his Major League career. He worked during last season with the stellar third baseman Peter Whitelaw, who quit baseball in '78 to pursue a career in politics. Starsky is making Major League history. He'll be the first naturally left-handed Major Leaguer to play both positions usually restricted to righties. Starsky will be playing the position as a right-hander, as he did behind the plate, but it's still a remarkable feat for an athlete born left-handed. Based on his skill at switch-hitting, I doubt he'll find it too challenging."

"Pat, the Dodgers are taking the field, and the music crew is taking an opportunity to get the fans enthused over this momentous occasion. They've cranked up 'The Boys Are Back in Town.' Dodger fans, this is a truly awe-inspiring moment. David Starsky has joined Hutch on the mound, and both are tipping their hats for the fans. The crowd has gone wild. We have a standing ovation for these two baseball warriors."

"They've definitely proven themselves, Bill. Both have overcome injuries that could have ended their careers. They look strong, eager, and determined to prove that this close-knit Dodger team can bring home World Series rings. I have a good feeling about this year."

"So do I, Pat. So do I."

THE END

"The Taste" and "The Scripture of the Golden Eternity" by Jack Kerouac and lyrics to "Go All the Way" by the Raspberries were used without permission but with respect and no intention of copyright infringement.


End file.
